


I Do

by IEatBooksForTea



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Chrashley - Freeform, F/M, Jam, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 39,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IEatBooksForTea/pseuds/IEatBooksForTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashley has been waiting for this day in what feels like forever. Her wedding. With Chris. All she has to do is walk through those doors, letting her feet lead her down the aisle. And she'll be there. In front of him. But is it that easy? A story in which Ashley deals with the aftermath of all that she's done and the events of the mountain. A companion story to 'After'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Have and To Hold

"Stop stressing," Sam hums, fiddling with the fluttering ends of my curled hair, making sure they're laying in the exact, perfect place across my shoulder. Jess only slaps Sam's hand and redoes it. Of course Jess knows the _real_ perfect place. She's always been a perfectionist. "As soon as you see him, you'll relax."

Her words don't help the butterflies battling in the pit of my stomach. I press my palms to my belly, trying to squeeze them, to suffocate them. Jess swears under her breath, pushing my hands away from the sturdy, lacy, ivory fabric. Her eyes glare, "You'll ruin it."

I cringe a smile, flinging my hands up in surrender. I better not contradict Jess. You never know what she's capable of. "Okay," I mumble through my nervousness, gritting my teeth in a smile. "I'll keep my hands off."

Sam nudges me with her elbow. Jess almost kills her with a glare as Sam's elbow almost snags the ribbon wrapped around my waist. Sam just rolls her eyes and grins at me, wiggling her eyebrows. "Chris won't be able to keep his hands off though," she chuckles. I feel my cheeks blush ferociously. I cup them with my cold hands, wishing the redness would just go away. This is not a good look for a wedding day. "Especially when he sees you in this."

I glance down at my wedding dress, the lacy fabric falling like waves over my curves. It took me forever to pick out this dress. I kept asking Sam and Jess, after trying on each and every single dress, if it suited me. They'd smile with glittering eyes and nod enthusiastically.

Then I'd ask them if Chris would like it. Sam would bite her lip in a smirk, Jess would eye me with a look that said, ' _are you serious?_ '

"He'd love anything you wore, Ash," Sam would explain with that telltale grin on her face. One that she probably adopted from Josh.

I try to avoid thinking about him.

"No," I'd mutter, shaking my head, devastated. My ears would never hear a single word. I was so convinced Chris _wouldn't_ like it. It had to be perfect. It had to be perfect for him.

It wasn't until Sam pulled me aside and told me the truth - that the perfect dress for Chris would be one that _I_ loved – that I realised. And took a breath and went for the dress I loved. Why is it that Sam's always right?

She leans in towards my ear now, making sure not to ruin my curled hair, her eyes sliding to Jess just to make sure. "And I'm sure," she grins, "He'll enjoy it even more tonight."

"Oh gosh, shut up," I cringe, wanting to slap her on the arm and shove her away so she'll stop making me blush. I don't even want to think about Chris and me tonight... It makes me excited and nervous at the same time. Mainly nervous.

I glance to Jess who's busying herself sorting out the exact dimensions of the bow at the small of my waist. I had to ask her to be my bridesmaid. It had felt so natural after everything. We never were really close before. But Chris had started spending more time with her. Helping her as she moved on from what she'd left behind. And through him, she'd started warming up to me.

Chris said Jess needed the distraction – after everything that had happened. After dropping her contract with her whole motivational speaking gig, she needed some motivation of her own.

She was delighted when I asked her. But I couldn't ignore the reluctance in her eyes; like she didn't think she was worthy.

The large, wooden doors creak in front of us, a familiar face peaking through the doors. "Are you guys ready?" Matt whispers, the E tattoo scrawled across his neck still prominent. But it's fading. Like something – or someone – else has taken its place.

A smile dances on my lips as I catch Matt's eyes slip towards Jess, and hers fall into his. He never fails to make her feel easy. I can see her features relax. She's probably not even thinking about my dress anymore.

I pass a knowing look to Sam who rolls her eyes, a grin tugging at her lips. She's trying to hide it but she knows too. There's something going on between the two of them.

"Give us five minutes," Sam informs Matt. He breaks his gaze from Jess, the action obviously shuddering, and meets Sam's with a nod.

"Got it," he mouths before sending a reassuring smile in my direction. I smile back, trying to hide my fluttering nerves, just as he closes the doors with a click.

I never thought Matt would ever forgive me after what I'd done. I still hear the harrowing, deafening click of the gun as Mike pressed down on the trigger and the bullet exploded into Emily's eye with a sickening squelch. I feel sick. The image haunts my mind; the blood smeared across the cork board hung on the wall. The eerie, dead silence following her death. The choking cries of Sam-

"Okay, Ash?" Sam asks quietly, curving around to face me. She's pulled her blonde hair into pin curls, making it look like little roses blanketing the whole of her head. Her expression is careful, watching me slowly. She can tell when something's up – I suppose that's her skill from spending time with Josh. "You look really pale."

"Yeah," I splutter, forcing on a smile. I feel sick on the inside. I can't tell if it's butterflies anymore or Emily's guts. "Yeah, I'm good."

She looks at me for a second. Unsure. Careful. Then she lets a smile slide onto her lips. "Okay," she nods, before motioning to Jess who reaches for my bouquet, handing it to me with her thin, nail-painted fingers.

Jess looks like she wants to press me with one of her motivational speeches. But then her eyebrows crease, her skin wrinkling and she takes a breath, pushing it out. It kind of makes me sad that she feels the need to let _everything_ out there. Instead, she takes my hand, her own hand cold, meets my gaze and says, "Go knock him dead."

I chuckle, though it's strangled. My nerves are coming back. Well, they never really went. But every time I think about Chris, my stomach starts fluttering again. And my hands start shivering. I want to call it anticipation but I know it's more than that.

It's wanting to impress him. And I feel like I'm going to fail.

My two bridesmaids take their spaces in front of me, Jess first, followed by Sam. They clutch their smaller bouquets in their hands – maroon and pink to match their dresses – and straighten their backs. Sam glances at me one last time, sending me a reassuring smile.

I want to smile back.

But I find myself wanting to save that one for Chris.

So I take a breath, lift my chin, and watch as the double doors creak and then spread open.

Waiting for me.

* * *

There he is. Stealing my breath away. Again.

I've barely taken two steps along the aisle when my gaze catches his. I can't help it. My eyes naturally just search for him. Like I'm metal and he's the magnet.

He looks just as nervous as me. I can't help but smile, feeling our familiar gaze flutter between the two of us. The knowing gaze - we always know what the other is thinking. Chris shares my smile, looking like he's about to chuckle. It's amusing - we're both so nervous. And suddenly, as soon as we see each other, we know we don't have to be. He instantly settles my stomach, my shoulders relaxing, my hands stopping their shivering. He knows me. Why did I ever need to impress him, be more than I am, around him? He's always been what I'd envisioned him to be - and more.

He's so handsome; in his white suit, pinned to fit his sturdy, lanky figure. The way he shuffles his feet nervously, his arms tucked behind his back. The way he bites his lip in a grin, anxiously waiting for me to reach the end of the aisle.

But I've seen his different kind of handsome. The kind I only see. The way he silently shares smiles with me, the tousled way his hair is in the morning when he wakes up. His squinted eyes when he can't find his glasses and is struggling to see. The handsome of his heart.

And I can't help but notice the way his glasses are steaming up, droplets of tears falling on the glass.

The material of my dress rustles as I let my feet walk down the carpeted aisle. The room is glistening white, ribbons of maroon wrapped around each chair, and bunting hung from the walls. I can see people around me, standing up and watching me move. But all my eyes are focused on are Chris and that irresistible goofy grin of his. I desperately just want to speed up my walk so I can reach him as soon as possible. But the pianist playing the wedding march I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me moving to a different rhythm.

So I focus on the beat of my feet. One step after another, feeling my fingertips tingle, wrapped around the dewed stems of my bouquet. My eyes drop to the flowers, their rich, fall scent soaking into my nose. I'm almost convinced that everyone can see the flowers move and jitter with my anticipation. I'm entirely sure that I don't look very professional.

I smile. But Chris and I were never really professional, were we?

My eyes slip up again, my feet moving down the aisle, closer and closer to Chris. And I expect my eyes to land on him. But then they divert towards his best man. Josh.

I almost stumble.

I forgot he was here.

The smile trips on my lips.

_No, Ashley,_ I scorn myself. _He's Chris' best friend. Chris deserves to have him here._

But I don't know if Josh does.

I've tried _so_ hard to move on. To forget what he did, to forget seeing his body ripped apart by a rusty saw. To forget hearing his voice on the end of " _You can shoot Ashley or you can shoot yourself._ "

Chris has been trying. Ever since Josh was released from prison, the charges of arson held against him no longer valid, Chris has been slowly wheedling me into sharing flickers of moments with the three of them. I can see how much Josh means to Chris. And I know that marrying Chris means we'll share everything together. Even friendships.

But I don't know if I can do it.

It hurts.

I force my eyes to find Chris again. He's swallowing, glancing to Josh who is patting him on the shoulder and assuring him he has the rings. Josh dips his fingers into the side pocket of his suit jacket. And then his face falls, his eyes widening in shock. In panic. And I know that look; ' _I've screwed up'._

Chris looks like he's going to explode with panic, reaching out to grab Josh's shoulders like he's going to fall over if he doesn't. But then, typical Josh, he grins and pulls out the two rings.

Another prank. Of course.

Chris looks like he's about to murder Josh. When he drops his best friend's arms, looks up to meet my eyes.

And everything flashes.

The room shifts in a blink. It's not white anymore. Blood. Blood everywhere. Smeared across the walls, across the floor, across the seats, across the _people_. I choke, like I'm going to cough up my own blood. Shivers violently shake my spine.

The people - their faces aren't real. They all stiffly turn to face me, their heads replaced with the soulless ones of pigs. Glassy eyes, blood and all. I want to run. I want to escape. I tug at my feet, desperate to rip them out. But their stuck in guts and blood and organs, wrapped around my legs. A desperate cry rips from my throat.

Josh hangs from mid air, like he's a ghost. And half of his body is ripped off, his intestines falling out. Like spiderwebs. Like sausages.

Bile pushes up my throat. I double over, tears smearing my face. My bones are shivering, quivering inside my skin. I can't stop shaking.

And I want to scream. I want to tear at my own skin, to rip it away and escape this.

"Ashley?" Chris voice breaks through. My eyes pull up to meet his. His face is smeared with blood, splattered over the once pure white suit. I stumble back, coughing up tears. My legs feel like they're going to break underneath me.

Because he's holding a gun to his throat. And his eyes are shivering with fear, eyes watering, teeth gritting.

"Chris!" I cry out, my voice hoarse, tears springing out of my eyes and pouring down my cheeks.

And then I see the blood. It makes me choke. It's on my dress, dribbling down the ivory fabric. Soaking into it like it's bandages. Dripping from the petal of the flowers with a pat pat onto the blood soaked floor. I scream, dropping the flowers with an ominous, echoing thud, pain digging into my stomach.

And on my hands! Blood everywhere! Seeping into my skin, into the creases and wrinkles. Like I'm _made_ of blood.

My throat coughs up a cry, shredding my windpipe. And my fingers fly to my hair, tugging at it, nails digging in, before I spin around and rush back down the aisle and out of the door, tears and blood streaming behind me.        


	2. For Better, For Worse

"Ashley!" My voice cracks, my eyes watching in horror as she digs fingers into her hair, screams violently and rushes out of the room. A series of gasps follow her, like ghosts, hovering in the cold, dead air. I'm numb. I can't move, my eyes just trailing after her, focused on the place she had been. I thought she was better. I thought things were fine. I thought-

Josh slaps my shoulder with his hand. The sharp contact jerks me out of my numb hole, pushing me forward. Ushering me forward. I don't even care if he meant it that way or not. I don't even dare glance at him, my eyes focused on the wooden, double doors on the other end of the aisle, not letting it out of my sight. I have to reach her. The pain aches in my chest, spilling out into tears that I roughly wipe away with my wrist, my feet hurrying down the aisle.

Sam and Jess, who have already taken their places at the front of the church - just like we'd practiced countless times - look haunted, anxiety fighting on their features. Sam looks likes she wants to run too, to make sure Ash is okay. But her eyes slide to me and she rests back onto her heels. She knows I need to be alone with Ash right now.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter to guests as I pass, offering them apologetic smiles. Some of them wear sympathetic expressions, like they feel sorry for me. Like things are over between Ashley and I. But they're not. I know they're not.

They can't be.

I move faster with every second, my feet stumbling forward, not even caring anymore about what people think. I'll reach Ashley in time. I'll catch her before she falls too deep.

My foot crunches atop flowers as I accidentally run over Ashley's bouquet. At least it's not her heart that I've crushed.

Right?

Reaching the double doors, Matt and Mike both send me questioning looks as they usher the door, asking if I need their help. The both of them have been avoiding confrontations with the other this whole day. I know Matt is uncomfortable with the man who shot his girlfriend. And Mike is restless, unsure of what Matt is capable of. But they're trying their best - because they understand each other. Even if they can't see it.

I shake my head, barely even focused on them. They're not my priority at the moment.

With a heave, I almost collide with the doors as I hurrying through them.

"Chris!" Ashley chokes, her head swinging around as soon as she hears the door. She's huddled on the floor, her ivory dress puddled around her like water. Like her tears. She hurries up from her feet and collapses into my arms, clinging to me. Her fingers tug inside my stomach, inside my heart, as much as they do my clothes. Instantly, I catch her, my arms wrapping tightly around her small frame. Feeling her freezing cold body. Wanting to warm her up with mine.

"It's alright," I mutter over and over into her hair, hearing her spluttering sobs against my shoulder. Thank goodness I didn't spend a fortune on this suit.

She shakes and trembles in my arms, like she's just a sack of bones. I want to cry, want to shed tears for her; for me, for us. But I force myself not to, my throat clogging up. I need to stay strong for her right now.

No matter how much seeing her like this hurts me.

"Ash," I murmur over and over, gently guiding her head back from my shoulder, my eyes finding hers. I brush my thumbs against her tear smeared cheeks, my palms cupping her face. Her eyes tremble as she looks up at me, but her arms are circled around my torso, her heartbeat relaxing. Whatever happened in there - whatever she _saw_. It's gone. "They're dead," I begin, settling into our routine, one I'd hoped we didn't need any more. Ashley recognises the words and her lips slowly move along to them, her body releasing her tension. "They can't get us here. It's all over."

She nods, the curls of her red hair falling over her face, strands sticking to her cheeks. She looks beautiful; even despite her smeared makeup and swollen, red lips. She's never looked any more beautiful.

Because she's showing me her heart.

And it's broken.

"Ash?" I ask slowly, my left hand dropping to her waist, soothingly caressing the small of her back. Just to be sure. I need to know. I'd been trying to fight it, not letting the doubt creep in. But I have to know. "This isn't..." I mouth out the words, my heartbeat pacing, a hard beat in my chest. Making it feel heavy. I gently stroke Ashley's cheek with my thumb, sweeping away a stray tear. She leans into my touch. "This isn't you saying you don't want to-?"

"No," Ashley insists, her voice breaking. Panic rises in her eyes as she shakes her head. Muttering 'no' over and over. "I _want_ to marry you, Chris."

I let out a breath. Relief. It eases the heavy pain in my chest.

"Good," I whisper, smiling slowly and brushing a ringlet from the side of her face. It's just not the right time. I should have known that. I should have waited longer.

But Ashley had seemed so _well_.

"I can wait," I promise, my lips barely moving in the whisper.

The door behind me creaks and I catch a glimpse of a sombre Sam slip through. Carefully, she pieces her way towards us, her sorrowful eyes focused on Ashley. I send Sam a sad smile, assuring her that Ashley has calmed down. That we're okay. Sam nods back, her smile matching mine.

"Hey, girl," Sam coos, her hand gently pressing against Ashley's arm. "You okay?" Ash turns to Sam, her gaze dropping as she carefully nods.

Sam looks at me. And I know. I've been trying to avoid it, trying to ignore it. Ashley had been so well, doing so good. It had always been a false alarm, that's what I kept labelling it as.

But that wasn't true anymore. And Sam could tell. Anyone who spent two minutes with Josh could see the similarities.

I want to swear under my breath.

Why couldn't I protect Ash from this?

Instead, I breathe, gently unhooking my arms from Ashley, who's wide, watery eyes pull back up to mine. "I'm going to explain to the guests, okay?" I lean over and press a kiss to her forehead. The kiss tastes salty from tears. I think they're mine.

Ashley silently nods, her bones shivering. Sam wraps an arm around her shoulders and murmurs sweet compliments about her dress and her hair – to distract her.

"Look after her?" I plead with Sam, meeting her gaze. I can _feel_ the pain in mine.

Sam simply nods. I trust her. She's always been easy to trust.

And I watch as Sam guides Ashley away, knowing to take her to the hotel room we had booked for after the wedding. Going home would bring about too many memories. She needs a clean slate right now.

Ashley twists her head around to watch me as she leaves. I smile back at her. A promise. _Don't worry. I love you._

As soon as the two of them have made their way around the corner, sadness tugs my smile down. I weave my sweaty fingers together, my fingertips rapping against knuckles. _Okay, Chris_. I take a breath. _You can do this_.

And, with as much strength as I can muster, I push the door open back to the wedding ceremony. Ready to break to news to everyone.

Something I never thought I'd be doing today.

* * *

"What do I say?" I scratch the back of my head nervously, having pulled Josh aside to the edge of the wedding ceremony hall.

Josh shrugs nonchalantly, a smirk on his lips. "I'd suggest bringing out a few saws," he chuckles dangerously, that irritating gurgle bubbling at the back of his throat. "That generally does the _trick_."

I let out a frustrated sigh. Typical Josh. Yet his stupid smile is contagious. It snaps my anger and tension in half. He's just trying to keep me relaxed, lightening me up. _Distracting_ me. I need that right now. I can't break the hard news to everyone when I'm so tense.

Though I'm pretty sure most of them have an idea of it already. Whispers are being passed throughout the room like candy; speculation. I don't want any of them to start thinking badly of Ashley. Or me.

I glance to Ashley's mom who is sat at the front row, Jessica trying her best to calm her down. It took me forever to win her over, to let me marry her daughter. I don't want all my efforts in proving myself worthy to completely be lost.

"Do you want me to tell them?" Mike appears behind me, asking with a solemn, raised eyebrow. Josh twists his lips, almost like he's chewing on something. Probably chewing on Mike, ready to spit him up. Instead, Josh spreads a grin across his face, throwing it in Mike's direction. Mike shivers, trying to ignore it. I think it's Mike who feels more uncomfortable around Josh than the other way around.

I suppose that's what happens when you share a prison together.

"No," I shake my head, grateful for Mike's suggestion. It took a little while for me to forgive Mike after what he did to Ashley, blaming her in court for the death of Emily. But eventually he allowed me to see it from his perspective. He'd been shoved in a corner. It had felt like he'd had no other way out.

Just like right now. With what I have to do.

"It should be me," I nod resolutely, convincing myself. "Thanks," I pat Josh on the shoulder. Hoping that he won't smuggle the wedding rings home now that they're not being used. At least, not yet.

Then I move to the front of the church – where Ashley and I should have been standing taking our vows – and I adjust my glasses on my nose, swallowing some confidence and strength. Then, with as loud a voice as I can manage, I cough to get everyone's attention. Their heads instantly turn to look at me. Judgemental. Terrifying.

I breathe out slowly, glad to see a reassuring face in the audience; Jess looks up at me, urging me with her strength. She looks like she wants to start taking out notecards and starting a motivational speech.

Ha. Would be useful right now.

"Excuse me," I clear my throat, my palms sweating as I cup them together behind my back. "I apologise for the delay. I- uh," I grit my teeth, struggling for words. "Ashley and I have decided to postpone the wedding."

The crowd erupts in whispers and bickering. Like they're exchanging bets and results from them. My breath shivers with anxiety and frustration. But I force my eyes to glance at Josh. And his swift thumbs up eases me, helping me breathe. I knew there was a reason why I needed him here.

"If you'd like to proceed to the reception," I offer to the guests with the best smile I can offer. "You've put a lot of effort in coming today. It shouldn't be wasted, right?" I force out a grin, a series of laughs bouncing off it. Humour is a great relaxer. It's also a great place to hide.

"Thank you," I sign off. Before slipping off the stage. And wishing I was somewhere else entirely.


	3. For Richer, For Poorer

My bones ache as I move, the heavy, ivory fabric of my dress rustling behind me. My cheeks feel raw and crusty from crying, my hair like a mess of tangles, choppy around my face. I feel freezing, despite the sweat glistening on my neck and shoulders. Sam gently guides me to the hotel room, occasionally sweeping behind me to bundle up my train so I won't trip over it.

I feel numb. I just stare forward, like I'm in some sort of nightmare. Like everything is fuzzy, closing in on me. And suddenly I'll burst awake in my bed with a perfectly content Chris beside me, a new wedding ring on his finger.

"Hey," Sam murmurs, her words oddly indistinct to me. We've stopped moving. It's confusing. I blink a few times, adjusting my head to look at her. But I can't feel any expression settle on my features. Instead I'm just dazed. It's like that feeling when you come back from the dentist after having been given anaesthetic.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, peering to look into my eyes, scoops of hair falling over them. She fiddles with a key car in her hand, her wrist resting on the handle of a hotel room. Numbly, my eyes drift up to the gold number attached to the front of the door. _13_. How appropriate.

I vaguely feel myself nod, then shift into shaking my head. "I don't know," tumbles out of my mouth.

A sad smile settles on Sam's lips. She simply nods like she understands. But she doesn't. She isn't the one that was supposed to marry the man of her dreams today – and she wasn't the one who just _threw_ it all away.

_"This isn't you saying that you don't want to-?_ " Chris' words haunt my mind. I feel my lips twitch into a painful frown. He needs to know – he desperately needs to know – that I do want to marry him. I'm not pulling him along. I _love_ him.

I couldn't live with myself if he thought I didn't.

It feels like there's an aching hole in my chest. And blood is seeping into it.

"Don't worry," I feel Sam gently rub the space between my shoulder blades, giving me that sympathetic smile again. The one that's meant to make me feel better. "He knows."

I shake my head, my dead curls a tangle in front of my face. How is that Sam knows my fiancée more than I do? How is it that she doesn't let him down, and I'm the one that does? Tears burn my eyes. I don't even have enough energy to wipe them away as they trickle down my cheeks.

The presence of Sam's hand from my back disappears. I shift my shoulders stiffly, and hear the click of a key card and the creaking of a door opening.

"Come on," Sam ushers me gently, finding my hand in the mess of my body and leading me into the room. My footsteps are clunky, not the graceful ones I had always planned to take down the aisle. The ones that would come so easily, the ones that would want to brisk to meet Chris at the alter. To rush the vows so I could kiss him and be his wife. And have our happily ever after.

My feet find their way onto the hotel room carpet. The door clicks behind me.

And I feel my numbness crack in half, my body tumbling to the floor.

"Oh my go-" I choke out, tears spilling out and smearing across my cheeks and drowning my hair. I clasp my hands over my eyes, letting out an aching cry. Sam's hurried footsteps fall beside me and she wraps arms tightly around my shoulders, whispering silent and yet panicked _Shh_ 's.

"I've _ruined_ it!" I cry, roughly swiping away persistent tears from my raw skin, my body falling onto my knees, the carpet rough against my skin. This dress is so damn heavy. It digs into my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I want to rip it from my body, to burn it, to never see it again.

I choke on another cry. But this was the dress I'd bought for Chris. The one I wanted him to see me in. The one he was supposed to take off. The one that was supposed to commemorate the best day of our lives.

I hate it! I hate _me_!

"Ash," Sam pleads with me, trying to pull hair away from my face so she can see me. So I can see her. But all I want to do is hide. To curl up in a corner and sink into the wall. And disappear. "Ash, it's not ruined. We can sort this."

"We can't sort _anything_!" I grit my teeth, shaking me head over and over, fingers crawling up from my face to dig into my hair. "We can't. We can't."

There's an aching silence. Sam looks on at me. I can feel her gaze. It hurts, like a painful needle sticking into my skin.

I don't know what it is. I just want to hide.

Sam gently scoops her hand underneath my shoulder and slowly steers me to my feet. I want to fight back but my energy is failing and my feet are tripping.

"Let's get you into bed," Sam breathes out, guiding me towards the bed. I rub my raw eyes with the heel of my palm, smeared mascara coming off onto my hand. I tug away tangles of my hair from my face, my breath shivering, my eyelashes blinking through even more tears. Let them come. I deserve to cry.

The hotel room feels hollow. Like it's lost a part of itself too.

The walls are meant to be warm and comforting, a gentle champagne colour, and they dip into rich, dark wooden furniture, and carmine coloured carpets. But it feels so cold. So empty, void of something. Aching for something.

Sam let's out a low groan, her hand dropping my arm and she roughly grabs the duvet of the large bed in the centre of the room and shakes it rapidly. Flutters of red fall to the floor, scents of flowers sprouting into the air. I suddenly realise why – the hotel staff must have sprinkled the bed covers with rose petals, deluded in the fact that a wedded couple would be admiring it right now.

My cheeks throb with resentment, with the painful scars created by tears. All aimed at myself. The bed looks like it's deflated, knowing that it will be void of a newly married couple tonight.

"Let's get you out of this dress," Sam gently presses, having let out her frustration with shaking the bed covers. She finds her way behind me and starts to tug at the bow that Jess had spent so long in perfecting.

Just like I've just done to my relationship with Chris.

* * *

My skin feels rough and raw as I curl up under the covers, drowning in my own tears. The silence is aching. It seeps into my eye sockets, drilling into my mind. Emptying itself into my skull so there's just desolate, painful _nothingness_.

Occasionally, I hear Sam shuffling around the room, clicking keys on her cellphone. The sound echoes around the room; amplified, piercing. I want to throw my hands over my ears and suffocate the sound with my palms.

I feel naked, only covered in thin, spider-web like undergarments. The bed covers smother me. I pull them up to my chin. They're good to hide in.

A door creak. I stop breathing. It could be him. I snap up from bed, _hoping_ for him. Hoping to see Chris, for everything to be alright. For him to sort everything out, like he usually does.

But instead of Chris, Matt's figure shuffles into the room, his eyes passing over me with a sad smile. I collapse back onto the bed, defeated. I'm pretty sure I hear a frustrated sigh escape my dry throat.

"Thanks for coming," Sam's distant voice says solemnly, even though I'm sure she's close.

I can hear the shifting of Matt shrugging his shoulders as I pull the covers over my face. The top of my head feels cold, and I'm sure tufts of my mess of hair can still be seen.

"Any time," he sighs. And I know he's looking at me. At least, the shape of my cluttered body hidden underneath the covers. "How's she doing?"

I want to snap that I'm still here. That I can _hear_ them. But I find there's no energy in my body. I'm hollow. I just want to sink back into the bed and disappear.

"She's..." Sam has no answer. I don't blame her. I don't know how I am either. "She's surviving."

I twist fingers into the duvet, grabbing bunches of it. That's what Chris and I were. Survivors. From that night on the mountain. From the hauntings of a stalker and a trial. From life.

Now he's the survivor and I feel like... _nothing_.

"How's things going down at the reception?" That's Sam's voice. I can't tell if she's genuinely anxious about it or if she's just trying to avoid his questioning.

Matt huffs uncomfortably. "Not great," he decodes. "You could say we're surviving too."

Surviving. All just surviving. The curse of life.

"Chris is being bombarded with questions," Matt groans. I tug the duvet down to the level of my eyes at the mention of his eyes, peering over the edge. Matt is scratching the back of his neck, looking pained. Sam matches his gaze. Neither of them had expected this today.

They'd all been expecting to be celebrating today

I've let them down.

I scrunch my eyes closed, gripping the duvet with fists. Tears trickle down from the cracks between my eyelids and my cheeks.

I've let Chris down.

"He's coping," Matt muses between a gulp.

Coping. Surviving. It's all the same.

I don't want to hear these words anymore. I want to forget, to push these things out.

It isn't long before sleep grants my wish, tugging me into the nightmarish hell waiting for me. I willingly slip into it.


	4. In Sickness and In Health

Something inside of me deflates. With a heavy chest, I stare at the pile of gifts stacked atop the delicately decorated table. How are we going to return all these?

They're like a representation of what I feel like. This morning, I'd been so excited; so nervously excited, anticipating the moment when Ashley and I would share our vows. And finally get to call her my wife.

Now I feel so... empty. So lost of a purpose, all the excitement fizzled out.

Subconsciously, my hand reaches out and I pick up a nearby card, fiddle with the corner of the envelope and slip the card out.

_'Congratulations on your wedding day, Chris and Ashley! We're so happy for you!'_

$50 dollars in notes flutter to the floor from inside the card, like broken wings of a bird.

A sigh whistles through my teeth. I drop my head, my shoulders slumping, the card slipping from my weak fingers and clattering back onto the table.

"Hey," I hear a quiet voice behind me. I barely move before I see Jess sweep up beside me, her blonde hair twisted up into a rose-like bun at the crown of her head.

"Hi," I let out a defeated breath, dropping her gaze again. I'm fed up of trying to keep up a smile; of answering questions and keeping up appearances. I can still hear the bustling in the main hall next door, of shouts and shots of alcohol. Half of them are mourning the mess of what our wedding has become. The other half are celebrating. I can just feel it. Like a lingering, sticky breath at the back of my neck. I jolt to shake it off, shivering all over.

"Are you alright?" Jess pries, her eyes set on me, like pin pricks. Telescopes. Trained for its target. I'm not in the mood to be scrutinised right now.

"I'm fine," I huff, rolling one still shoulder and pushing my feet towards a nearby chair against the wall, dropping down into it.

Jess simply rolls her eyes and I'm surprised that she doesn't stick a hand at her hip for the full effect. "You're not fine, Christopher," she states plainly, and above the black rims of my glasses, I see her lifting a single eyebrow. I let out a puff of a laugh, amused by how quickly she adopts this version of herself. It's engrained into her skin, into the way she moves her features. Like a default setting. She purses her lips, unimpressed; "I can tell."

"Thanks for noticing," I muse humourlessly, feeling exhausted. I can't tell if I sound sarcastic or not. I'm too tired to notice.

I know Jess is only trying to help. She's been constantly trying to live up to what she refers to as her mistakes. She's trying to repay us for what we did for her when she needed us the most. I can't get mad at her for that. I just- it's hard to see someone who seems to _put_ together when I feel exactly the opposite.

I chuckle once. Jess would probably be the first to object.

"Come on, Chris," Jess tilts her head meaningfully at me, like she's a teacher, waiting for me to answer the question. I feel so small under her gaze. Like a child. I think she notices and she shuffles, trying to adjust herself to make me feel better. Her eyes soften, letting her chest release a tense breath. "You can't keep moping around in here."

"I'm not going back there," I reply, defeated, jabbing my thumb back towards the direction of the main hall – where all the action is happening and the guests are drowning in their tears of mourning-slash-joy. Whichever fits.

A glimpse of a sad smile dances on Jess' lips – like one of those tragic love story ballets where the maiden dies in the end... or something like that. Some kind of variation of Romeo and Juliet.

I'm fed up of those smiles today.

I can just about here Ashley bickering on about how _nothing_ can be a _variation_ of Romeo and Juliet. Each piece of writing is an art form in itself. Special in it's own right – individual to the author and the writer.

I can feel a flicker of some kind of smile tug at my lips – a reminiscent one. Any thought of Ashley seems to do that to me. Make me smile, despite how I feel. This time, though, I catch myself before it can grow any further. I hate those kind of smiles now even more.

Because then I remember everything else and I come tumbling down.

"I didn't mean there, Chris," Jess finds herself a seat next to me. I shuffle as if to make room for her, even though I know I don't need to. My knee jerks up and down, a habit I've had since I was young. It seems to be one of those ones that bothers people. Ashley never seemed to be bothered by it.

I suppose that was I was able to pass her test to become her husband.

_'Was'_ being the word...

I breathe out, stretching up and sliding my eyes to the corners of my glasses to glance at Jess. She's trying her best. I know. She never really found it easy to get along with me before. I think I was kind of in the background; a speck on her glass, a fly on her wind-shield. But since she called me after that whole television incident, we had found a way to get along, to tolerate each other.

And now it's so easy in her company. Because she's lost something too.

She also has ' _Great skills of motivation'_ written boldly on her resume. That comes in handy.

"Why are you still here, Chris?" She asks carefully, unsure whether to place a hand to my shoulder or not. After a few retreats, she resorts to patting it. I let out a short, breathy laugh, finding it far too amusing.

I don't even question her as to what Jess means. Why _am_ I still here? I keep putting it down to obligation. To keeping up face and explanations. I'm scared that if I let these people out of my sight, they'll start thinking badly of Ashley or _me_. They'll start spreading rumours that we're falling apart.

But I won't let that happen.

And that's the thing. I'm scared it will. I have no doubt that she loves me. I'm sure of that every time I look into her eyes and feel the message being sent between the two of us.

But it doesn't matter how much we love each other; not when she may never be ready to marry me.

And I'm scared that if I go up to that hotel room – go and see her – that I'll have to see that straight away. I'll have to face the fact that I might never, truly have her.

Because a part of her will always be lost in her mind.

But...

But if I do _nothing,_ there is no more maybe. It is a _will happen_.

And I don't want to lose her. Not completely.

"You're right," I discover some resolve in my voice, my eyebrows creasing together like electrical cords, surging energy into my brain so I can think.

I push myself to my feet, clasping my hand onto her shoulder and passing her a short but meaningful, "Thank you" before I surge out of the room.

* * *

"Hey, _bro_ ," Josh slurs as he stumbles in my direction. Bustling sounds of crowds is overwhelming here. It seeps into my ears and floods my skull. I'd had my eyes set on the doors out of the reception hall, through the mess and mingling of all the guests. But as soon as Josh's booming voice blares over the carefully chosen, unromantic music, I can't help but snap my gaze to him.

Groggily, he pushes past a guest or two, his drink sloshing in his hand. After a jolt from a nearby dancer, the drink ends up bubbling over the rim, splashing onto his hand.

Josh gasps, hanging his tongue out like a dog and trying to lap up the drips from his hand before they plop to the floor. Though I'm pretty sure he would still gladly fall to his knees and start licking it off the floor too. I cringe.

"What are you drinking?" I groan, plucking the glass from his fist. He whimpers, pouting at me, but I ignore him as I take a sniff from the glass and feel myself visibly wince. "Gin?" I hiss, making a face at it. Josh reaches out to grab the glass back but I snap it away from him.

"You shouldn't be drinking," I scold him with a raised eyebrow.

"You're not my _mom_ ," Josh sneers playfully.

I roll my eyes. "Yes. And you're not invincible." Josh could run for president based on his bantering skill. Sure, he would screw up the country but he'd do a great job doing it.

I can't help but worry about him. It doesn't feel that long ago since he was released from prison. And it still feels like the authorities are watching him, just in case he slips up.

Even if I'd joked that he would be arrested as soon as he was released, I really don't want him to. Because, since he's been out, he seems to be recovering a piece of himself that I recognise. A part that I feel comfortable with.

I'd missed my best friend.

"Come on, Chris," Josh swings his elbow into mine, trying to drag me onto the dance floor. I scowl amusingly, trying to shove him off. "Let's dance!"

"No thanks, _bro,"_ I push his arm away, rolling my eyes. "I'm... I'm going to see Ashley."

Josh's eyes flicker and I know he realises this is serious. His cheek twitches, unsure of what to do. Then, as if he's adjusting his facial features, he smirks; "Boo! You're such a _bore_!"

I don't think Josh likes things too serious. They make him uncomfortable.

But at least he knows when to back off.

My eyes flicker back to the doors leading out of the reception all. I breathe in sharply, stealing some kind of confidence. Instinctively, I snap Josh's drink up to my lips and gulp the whole lot down, the sharp alcohol burning my throat.

I cough out a splutter as I drop it from my mouth, Josh exclaiming with a betrayed, "Hey!"

"Thanks," I wince, shoving the glass against his chest, barely even glancing in his direction – in case I lose the courage - and I push off. In the direction of that door.

I need as much determination as I can muster.

Alcohol doesn't hurt in providing that.

* * *

I breathe out carefully. I lift my fist and knock on the door. At least that alcohol wasn't enough for me to lose my coordination.

It feels like I'm proposing to her all over again. Maybe even still trying to pluck up the courage to tell her I have a crush on her.

Why does it feel like we've taken too many steps back? I want to recover them. I want to find them again – and more.

I shake my head. _No, Chris. This is different. You're determined this time. Even more so._ Fight for her – fight for her heart.

Sam cracks the door open, her eyes peeking round the corner.

"Oh," she blinks, smiling as she sees me. But it's another one of those sad smiles again. Though there's barely a flicker of a hope in her eyes.

"Can I see her?" I ask. Why should I have to have permission to do that? We live together. She's my fiancée. Not long ago, I was the closest person to her. I take a breath, my eyes as strong as I can make them, being sure that Sam can see my point. " _Alone_?"

Sam nods resolutely, pulling the door open with a creak. And she ushers Matt out who I saw had been standing awkwardly in the centre of the room, not sure what to do with himself.

And then I step into the room. The door clicks behind me.

And I'm alone with her.

And as soon as I see the tufts of her red hair poking out from underneath the duvet, I let out a breath. All my tension releases.

It's like we're home all over again.

Why had I ever been so stressed out about this? Why had I been so nervous about myself?

Ashley always makes me so effortlessly comfortable. She doesn't even have to do _anything_.

I allow myself to smile, letting it linger on my lips. Letting myself taste it.

Then I take a few steps forward, gently sitting on the bed, it shifting under my weight, and I reach my hand out, stroking her hair. I'm determined not to let her go. I'm determined that I'm not losing what we have. She shuffles at the touch, like I've disturbed her out of sleep.

And I breathe out with the gentlest voice I can muster; like a soft puff of a cloud, "Ashley?"


	5. To Love and To Cherish

"Chris?" I peer through the dim light, catching a glimpse of the dull reflection in his glasses as he shifts.

"Hi," he whispers back down at me, and I'm suddenly aware of the warmth of his fingers tangled in my hair. I had been soaking in the bed sheets, sinking into dreams and nightmares. It was only the distinct sound of his voice that made me stir, peeling my eyelids open, squinting at my surroundings. There's always that numb feeling after sleep where you forget everything from before you fell into it. There's this refreshing sense of _new_ ness, like it's a fresh beginning.

And then you remember. Reality sinks in again. You're no longer hovering in that space between dreams and being awake. And you have to feel those aching feelings all over again, like you're feeling them for the first time. You're _remembering_ them for the first time.

I hear a whimper escape the back of my throat and I curl back up, my face pressed into the pillow.

"Hey," Chris tugs at my shoulder, trying to get me to face him. To listen to him. But he's incredibly gentle, like he's afraid I will shatter.

"I'm sorry," my voice acts of its own accord, half muffled in the pillow. I don't want to look at him in case I cry.

Chris is silent. I can just about hear his shallow breaths and the swell when he swallows. Then, almost like it's hard for him to say, he cracks his lips open and murmurs, "I'm sorry too."

"What?" my voice croaks, finally twisting my face up to peer at him, my eyebrows creased, my cheeks crusty with dry tears. Why should he apologise? It wasn't him who-

"I should have seen it sooner," he drops his gaze, ashamed, knocking his fingers with his knuckles. "I shouldn't have rushed you."

"You didn't rush me," I insist, my voice curling with a kind of defensiveness. It makes it sound like I was dragging him back, like I didn't love him as much as he loves me. Like I was some kind of hindrance.

But then shame trickles in as I see the goodness in his eyes. Chris knows. No matter how long we so blatantly ignored how we felt about each other, that has built up to the instant connection we share. A single look, a single smile, and we know. We _understand_.

Did I ever, for a second, think Chris didn't?

Gently, as if to comply with the rules of body language, I gently find my wrists underneath myself and slowly push myself up into a sitting position. The duvet cover flops onto my knees from around my shoulders and I'm tempted to tug it back to my neck. But I stop myself. I can't keep hiding in these places.

"Oh," Chris perks up. Something suddenly flickers across his features, like an idea, a realisation. And he's stuffing his hand into his suit pocket, my eyes trailing after it, and something crinkles as he pulls it out. I want to ask him what he's doing as he unfolds a piece of paper, but I stop myself. I have a feeling. He needs me to listen to this - whatever it is.

Chris coughs, clearing his throat, his eyes landing across hand scrawled words written on the paper in front of him. "The first time I met Ashley, she wasn't very impressed."

"Chris?" I stare at him, confused, my voice weak but intentional. "What is this?"

His eyes flicker up from the paper to look at me. A clear look of simplicity and mischievousness pass his features. "My wedding speech," he shrugs, trying to hide his smirk. He returns his gaze to the paper, unfazed.

"Hey," I splutter, reaching out to grab the paper. "You can't read that now, it's for our wedding. It's probably some kind of bad _luck-_ "

Chris snatches his hand back, dangling the speech above his head, out of reach of my short, tired arms. "I'm reading this today," he raises his eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Whether you like it or not. I put a hell of a lot of work _into_ it, so you're not depriving me of this opportunity."

"Fine," I huff, slumping back against the headboard, crossing my arms resolutely. But I can't help the smile from curving my lips, and the feeling of comfort from settling into my stomach. It's always much better when Chris is here.

"Okay," Chris pats his chest, spreading the speech out in front of him like a newsreader – a quirked eyebrow in my direction just in case I try and steal it – and says, "Where was I? Oh yes. The first time I met Ashley, she wasn't very impressed. Josh and I had been playing a round of Water-bomb Fight - as you do - in the park, while Ashley was shading underneath the tree, studying like a bee - as you don't do."

A mock gasp escapes my throat and I shove Chris in the arm, making him laugh brilliantly, one hand clutching his arm like a battle wound as he tumbles to the floor with a thump.

"Serves you right," I grumble playfully as he pokes his face above the side of the bed, trying to look sorry for himself.

Begrudgingly, Chris pushes himself from the floor, mock sulking. I can help but laugh at him, feeling tension releasing from my muscles like the washing of water, and I shuffle up the bed, making space for him to slip in.

Chris' eyes glint - or maybe that's his glasses - as he sees my offer, shoves off his shoes (ones I can imagine have been uncomfortable to wear all day) and slides in to sit beside me.

"What were you saying, Chris?" I coo, cuddling up to him as he curves a warm arm around my shoulder and I settle my head against his chest, glancing teasingly up at him. "A water-bomb fight?"

"Ah, yes," he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, pursing his lips like he's a librarian and pulls the crinkled paper back in front of him. "As all dorky teenagers do, I slipped up and ended up throwing a water bomb right at Ashley's face - one I'm sure Josh purposefully forgot to catch." I chuckle at the memory, feeling the vibrations of Chris' voice through his chest killing me into comfort.

"She came charging up to me," Chris chuckles along with me, reading his own words, his fingers gently caressing my shoulder, "Soggy textbook in hand and an even soggier face."

I laugh to myself, snuggling further against Chris' chest and smelling his cologne. It's a soft, minty scent, the barest hint of masculinity in it. I giggle. Nothing any more masculine would suit him.

"I, being the gentleman I was," Chris chuckles. I snort. "Hurriedly offered to pay for her course text books for a whole term. Josh."

"Being the _Cupid_ he was," I chime in, reading the words off the sheet.

"Being," Chris repeats with a nod and a smile, "the Cupid he was, offered me as Ashley's personal study partner."

"And I said," I feel my eyes lighting up as I turn to catch a glimpse of Chris who has a lingering smile on his lips. I pull a face, mimicking how I had sounded that day, "That's not compensation. That's a _punishment_!"

Simultaneously, we burst out laughing. I've missed this. I've missed just this being _us_. For months, it's been us and Sam and Jess. And Josh, Mike and Matt. _And_ the caterers _and_ the wedding planners and... Well, we haven't really been alone for what feels like decades. How is it that Chris always seems to know what I need?

Slowly, the laughter dies out. And we're just left being _us_. Our eyes connect, watching each other, feeling each other. Chris' warmth is so comforting, his arm around my shoulders, his chest a pillow for my head. In this moment, it feels like are bodies were made to fit together so perfectly. My shoulder is the perfect size to click under his arm. My hip easily slides in the space at his waist.

Soul mates do exist.

Then, in the comfortable silence between us, Chris parts his lips and whispers, "Why does today have to be a bad day?"

I blink. "What?"

A grin slips onto Chris' lips, his eyes illuminated with an idea. Then he's sweeping forward, capturing my lips in a short kiss before untangling himself from me and diving off the bed. "Come on!" He urges, his grin way too wide for his face.

I simply stare at him, feeling myself frown, overthrown by Chris' sudden outburst. "Uh..."

"Come _on_!" He cheers, his face lighting up like a little child. He grabs my hand, tugging me out of bed. I almost stumble over, my legs weak and bare.

I almost stutter, trying to come up with any coherent response. My head swirls, my eyes wide, looking at that all too familiar excited look on Chris' face. "What we are doing?" I piece together the words, trying not to look too reluctant.

"We're going _out_ ," Chris states with a smirk, his eyes glancing down at my thinly clad body. I feel like I want to wrap myself in my arms, having been suddenly burst out into the cold air. But his eyes aren't harsh or slimy. They're soft, admiring. The eyes of a lover. Of a fiancée. He swallows, smiling, before flicking his gaze back to mine. "Put something on."

I blink at him, scoffing playfully and incredulously, "I don't have anything to _put_ on."

Chris studies me, a look of realisation crossing his features. Then; "Oh." Instantly, he shrugs off his suit jacket, slinging it over my shoulders – I tug on it to keep it from falling off – and he grabs my hand, a glint in his eye, and pulls me out of the door.

* * *

"You can't be serious," I stare dumbfounded up at the looming, metal gates, piercing the dim, dark sky. The metal glints in the low sunlight, misty through clouds. I swallow, feeling any kind of anticipation evaporating.

Chris had swept me away from under everyone else's noses. Sam and Matt had obviously returned to reception, having departed from outside the hotel room. The corridors were practically bare, with only the wandering Mike who quickly watched us zoom past, a confused look on his face. "Where are you going?" he'd blinked as we'd swept past.

"Out!" Chris had simply announced with a beaming face. I had sent a bewildered look in Mike's direction, shrugging. But I'd felt a kind of excitement bubbling up in me. The fresh kind, the kind that only exists within the reminiscence of memories. Of _good_ memories.

And then Chris had swept me along, through a series of roads and train rides, to reach here.

Our old school.

Chris looks smugly up at the gate and then back at me, wiggling his eyebrows. I send him an unimpressed glare, but I can't help but find myself biting back a smile. I've missed this version of Chris. He's been lost in the planning of weddings and stress of stalkers. He's been suppressed by the outside.

I feel an overwhelming sense of relief to see him back again.

"Ladies first?" Chris offers, making an over-exaggerated sweeping motion towards the wall at either side of the tall gates.

I blink at him, shivering in my thin clothes, Chris' suit jacket the only remotely warm thing I'm wearing. I swear my knees are turning blue. "I am not climbing up there in this," I tease, overly chattering my teeth to make a point.

"Spoilsport," Chris grins, knowing I'm only joking. With a mischievous glint in his eye, one I'm sure hasn't existed there since he was a child – maybe it's the location bringing it out of him – he practically dives for the wall, grunting and huffing as he tries to climb the bricks.

I laugh up at him, watching him scuff his suit trousers as he strains himself to pull himself up the wall. "I wish I'd brought a camera!" I coo up at him, a contagious smile sliding my lips up.

"Oh, shush," Chris groans, pulling himself onto the top of the wall. "See!" He turns around and proudly sprays his arms out wide, his face brightened up with a grin. "I did it!"

I let out a short laugh, before it evaporates as soon as Chris starts toppling backwards. I let out a squeak of a yelp, jerking forward with my arm as if I could catch him, and I see him fall backwards over the wall, followed by a crunch of the branches of a bush, and a painful _'oof'_.

"Chris?!" I call out, panic surging through me.

"Ugh," Chris hisses from the other side of the wall. "I'm okay," I hear his muted grunt and a puff of relief escapes my mouth, my eyes catching a glint of the condensation floating in the frigid air.

I hear his huffing as he shuffles about, then he appears from through between the metal bars of the high gates, shaking off leaves stuck to his shirt and trousers. And tucked in his head. I giggle, taking steps towards him, rolling my eyes in a playful mock.

"I know, I know," Chris picks a stray leaf out of his hair and stares at it as if it had just murdered his entire family. "I look great."

I grin, biting my lip, and lean against the gates – only to find them give way underneath me, the metal clattering. I stumble back before I can fall forward.

"You can't be _serious_ ," Chris stares at them, disbelieving.

I snort, overcome with giggles at the revelation; "The gate was open."


	6. Til Death Do Us Part

"Okay," I grunt, heaving the window open enough so that I – and Ashley – can squeeze through. "Just let me..."

"You struggling up there?" Ashley teases and I snap my gaze away from the window ledge for a second just to send her an unimpressed, but amused, glare.

The alleyway beside the school is pretty much deserted, aside from a few, abandoned black bags and a stray, deflated soccer ball stuffed in the grimy dirt. It's eerie here – but also secluded. The car park was empty but even an amateur criminal doesn't sneak into a building by the front – right? I have no experience with these things.

"Nope," I wheeze, the window opening with a groan. "I got it." Breaking into schools isn't exactly within my skill set. Usually, I stay clear of doing anything illegal. This, however, is an exception. Ashley and I – we need a change of scene. A place where we used to be happy, when we didn't have a care in the world – aside from anxiously analysing whether the other liked us or not – and a place without wendigos, worries or stalkers.

It had been the memory that had done it. Seeing how brightly Ashley smiled when I read her the start of my speech sparked something in me. It livened up a part of my brain that I had almost closed off. The places in my mind that light never reached anymore. The cracks that had almost been forgotten. Where memories of laughter and cheerfulness and _silliness_ were hidden.

The past.

"Are you coming up?" I ask, swiveling around to offer Ashley my hand from atop the dumpster. She clutches her arms around her upper body, her knees rattling, goose-pimples covering her pale, freckled skin. The breeze flicks her hair back and forth across her face, the curls deflated and fizzy. Green eyes pierce out from cold, rosy cheeks, coral lips shivering.

This is the Ashley I know. Not the one primped to perfection in a perfectly chosen, ivory dress. Not the one who's hair is evenly curled, each piece flawlessly placed around her head. This Ashley is a mess, tangled and lost and stunning. She has never looked more beautiful.

With a reluctant grimace, Ashley places her frozen hand in my own – mine like a blanket covering hers – and, finding the smile that isn't leaving my face, I gently pull her up.

* * *

"Are you sure no one's here?" Ashley whispers in the darkness, the clicking of my flashlight echoing down corridors as I switch it on. We're met with the gruesome face of a bucket slung over the handle of a propped up mop. Apparently, we landed in a storage closet.

"I'm sure," I smile, shoving my own nerves between my teeth. "It's Friday night. No one's gonna want to be hanging around here."

Ashley snorts, her hand reaching out and slipping into mine. I swear I can feel my heart thump in my chest. After all these years, it still does that. "Aside from us," she teases and she smirks, sending a glance in my direction, the glow from the flashlight reflecting against her eyes. It traces it's fingers down the side of the soft skin of her cheek and travels down the curve of her neck. I swallow.

_A storage closet isn't exactly the best place to do this, Chris._

Well... it depends on how you look at it. It might actually be the perfect place-

I almost physically slap myself in the face, shaking out the thoughts rattling around in my brain. "Come on," I chuckle, keeping a firm hand on hers and tugging her towards the door of the storage cupboard, my other hand clutching onto the flashlight – you know, just in case.

* * *

The school is cold and hollow, it's corridors bare and eerie during the night. The moon seems to like permeating the building as it creeps through the windows and splatters the floor with a blue hue of a glow. It casts empty shadows across beige, boring walls. But I can see Ashley's eyes light up with anxiousness and _ideas_. Like she sees it all so differently to me. Her gaze doesn't catch vacant shadows but _shapes_. Creatures, living beings. _Imagination_.

It makes me smile. Seeing her so _lively_ like this. Her mind no longer occupied by fears and failures but _inspiration_. New things. Not the lingering hauntings of old things.

I clutch her hand, excitement building up in me – sizzling in the pit of my stomach.

"Do you know," I lean my head towards her, whispering in her ear. Startled out of her daydreams, Ashley's eyes dart to mine. As soon as she sees the glint in mine, a smile tugs her lips upwards, tingling against her skin, "What we should do?"

She cocks her head to the side, raising a single eyebrow. "What should we do?" She mocks me playfully.

I bite back a grin.

"Run."

Then I grip onto her hand, race forward in a fit of childishness and pull her along as I run along the corridor.

"Wooooo!" I cry, hearing Ashley's laughter trailing behind me like a ribbon, echoing along the bare walls of the corridors. Our feet slap against the hard floor, the sound loud and cracking. Glancing behind me, I see her eyes alight with flame – to match her streaming hair – her mind sizzling with new thoughts that there isn't any room to remember the horror of what happened earlier today. This is what I wanted. To forget. To move on. Together.

I grin, feeling the air rush past me, tantalizing against my skin.

We were always told never to run along the corridors. Why not take the chance now?

Who knew defying the rules was so exhilarating?

* * *

"I can't believe they still have this," I laugh to myself, admiring the crafty handiwork of my fifteen-year old self.

I hear Ashley's giggle close to my shoulder as she brushes past me, carefully piecing her way between the desks in the art room, memories already alive in her mind. "Neither can I," she retorts with a smirk, obviously making a dig at how ugly it is.

I mock gasp, pressing a hand to my chest and staring, distraught, at her. Though, agreeably, it is pretty ugly.

My hand reaches out and plucks the mask from the wall, the paper-mache still as lumpy and crinkled as it was the day I made it. Fingertips graze over the dusty crevices, like I'm literally feeling a memory. Bright colours painted haphazardly over the surface clash painfully. They make me cringe with a reminiscent smile. It isn't hard to remember the birth of it's existence.

" _No," Ashley sighed, impatient, leaning over me. "_ This _is how you do it."_

_She grabbed the mask, slobbering a load of PVA glue over the smooth, plastic surface, lobbing on some newspaper strips, then painting on even more glue. "See?"_

_But I didn't see. I was far too distracted by how close her neck was to my nose, and how she smelled familiarly of strawberries. I swallowed, watching the way her smooth, soft hair effortlessly fell over my shoulder, dipping into the sludgy glue._

" _It's easy," she cooed, dipping her eyes to mine. Then, catching where their direction was aimed, her cheeks reddened, her body sweeping back. I felt a rushing sense of disappointment flood my body as I watch her move back, my body no longer feeling her radiating heat next to mine._

" _Thanks," I'd mumbled, trying to divert myself by fumbling at strips of newspaper and stuffing them on top of the mask._

I was so distracted.

No wonder I did such a botched up job.

Chuckling to myself, I place the mask over my own face and turning in Ashley's direction. "Ash?" I call out, barely seeing her through the eye holes punched through thick, bulky paper-mache. It smells oddly musty here.

"Yeah?" Her hair sweeps as she turns to look at me – and she almost topples over from shock.

I grin. "Bleeeeh," I stick my tongue out – though I doubt she can see it – and tip my head to the side, one hand holding the mask up to my face while the other drags out like a zombie.

"Ugh, _Chris_!" She laughs, throwing stray paint brushes in my direction. I duck in reflex, chortling as I hear the wooden paint brushes clatter against the cold, hard floor.

"Don't _do_ that!" Ashley whines. But I can tell she secretly loves it. It makes me grin.

I chuckle to myself, pulling the mask away from my face, hearing her rapid laughter like the beat of a heartbeat.

It dips.

And then it twists into a scream.

My gaze snaps to her in horror, the smile torn from my face. She's thrown herself into a crouch on the ground, hands dug into hair, pressed against her ears. Shaken. _Terrified_.

"Ashley!" I cry, dropping the mask, hearing it's vacant thud as it hits the floor, and I rush towards her. "Ash! Ash, hey!"

She rocks back and forth, whimpering incoherent words over and over. Tears dribble down her cheeks and I can feel ones stinging my eyes. I'm reaching forward. Grabbing her wrists, saying her name over and over again. Her fingers are buried so far into her head that I'm scared I'll never be able to get them out.

"Ash, hey, I'm here," I murmur over and over, feeling pain rip into my chest. It hurts me to see her like this. So helpless, so _locked_ in herself. I choke back a sob, shaking her hands away from her head. She drops them like they're weightless, her face crumbled in the shape of scream. It's almost like her skin is melting, the way it wrinkles around her mouth.

"Ash," I plead, dropping her wrists and cupping her cheeks with my hands. I guide her face to look at me. But her eyes are so _misplaced_. Like she's caught in them, not able to see past her lenses. "Please," my voice cracks, feeling a weight drain me. Feeling deflated, "Look at me."

And then I know. She's lost.

I've lost her.

What have I done?

* * *

My palms sweat as I intertwine my fingers together. Then undo them and twine them together again. The chair I'm sitting on is uncomfortable, the leather squeaking every time I move an inch. The sound makes me cringe, like nettle to the ears.

"So," I ask cautiously, trying to meet the psychiatrist in the eye. I'm afraid that if I do, I won't even have to ask – I'll already see the answer I'm afraid of. I swallow, my throat dry. "What is it?"

The doctor sighs, deflated, as he leans back in his chair – another leather one that doesn't relieve me of that squeaking noise. He takes a minute to steal some resolve, then leans forward again, hands clasping on top of his desk.

"Could be many things," he breathes out, nodding slowly. "Psychosis. Schizophrenia. We'll have to do more tests to find out."

I can feel the floor underneath me collapse. Along with my heart. "So... it's hallucinations?" my tongue darts out of my mouth to wet my dry, cracked lips. I keep doing it, something to distract me from the thumping inside of my chest and the tears stinging my eyes.

Though the doctor coughs, and I realise it's annoying him. An irritating habit. I bite my lip to stop.

"Among other things," the doctor clears his throat, diverting his gaze and nodding sympathetically. "I can't tell you anymore," he explains with a heavy sense of reluctance. "Not until we can confirm what it is."

I drop my head in a nod. My eyes hide themselves by tracing the woody grain of the floorboards, watching the dust form in clumps within the cracks. I swallow, every action swollen and painful. I wanted to ignore this. I wanted to pretend this wasn't happening.

But it _had_ been happening. _Right_ in front of my eyes. Forming itself like an alien manifesting itself inside the mind of my fiancée. Infiltrating her. Manipulating her.

It didn't belong there.

And it hurt. It hurt me to see it.

Slowly, with a heavy head, I lift my eyes back up to look at the doctor. Each word I croak out is agonizing. "Can I see her?"


	7. Love is Patient, Love is Kind

Bed sheets take the shape of monsters. They twist and writhe. They are bony, rotting arms snapping around my chest, choking me, suffocating me. Their nails dig into my neck, ripping my skin. A muffled scream burns my throat. It's broken. Dead. The claws have torn through my voice box, my windpipe.

I can't breathe. I can't, I can't. my fingers desperately scramble at my neck, trying to grip onto any oxygen I can. I cough and splutter out the last of my breaths, feeling blood slide between my raw fingers, my throat sliced.

Pain. _Burning_ pain. It soars through my skin, blusters scalding and red. It swallows me whole and I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't-

"Ash!"

His voice crashes through the pain, like a clean, long crack through the nightmare.

I hear his heartbeat. My breathing slows to match it. I feel his cold palm on my cheek, brushing away stray drops of blood.

The nightmares shudder. They blur, smothering out of focus.

And I crack my eyes open, tears stuck to my eyelashes, both dry and fresh.

"Ash?" Chris' voice breaks as he peers at me. There are tears in his eyes too. How did they get _there_?

My throat is dry when I try to speak. But all my words are lost. My mouth is empty.

And my eyes are too distracted by the overly white painted surfaces around me. Like someone has shoved me inside of a stark, white box. Frosty bedsheets are tangled around my limbs, in a mess around my body. They feel restricting. I don't recognise them.

"Where am I?" I gasp out, relishing the fresh, cooling taste of air. Sweat clings to my skin, hot and sticky. Chris' distracted eyes drop to my neck, the glare in the lenses of his glasses – a product of the clinical, bright light above our heads – hiding an expression I can feel in the way his fingers shake against my cheeks.

His fingertips trail down from my cheeks and along my jaw, his eyebrows caught together in anguish. My breath catches. I feel the flutter of his hands dipping down to trace my neck. It makes me shiver, like the gentle hum of a butterfly's wing.

Pain jabs me. I wince. Chris lurches his hand back, his eyes darting back up to mine. I can see the worry in them. And, in the reflection in his glasses, I can see the red scratch lines down my neck.

I whimper. Ow.

Was that me? Did I do that?

"It's okay now," Chris tries to reassure me. I see his lips try to smile. But it's hard for him now. He's been trying to do that for so long. His muscles are weakening, growing slack.

I feel fear bubble up in my chest, closing up my windpipe. I'm panicking, my eyes darting inside my skull. "What's going on?" I weep, my bottom lip quivering.

I can see Chris' face crumble in front of me. And he sweeps forward, wrapping warm, familiar arms around me, pressing my head against his chest. The movement swells inside my head. It feels like he's avoiding something. But I don't care. I just want to sink into him, into his arms.

Tears pierce my eyes like needles. I let them soak into my eyelashes, dripping down my cheeks and drench into Chris' shirt. Like I was created to do it, my weak arms find their way around Chris' back and I cling onto him with whatever strength I have left.

He's the only thing here I trust.

Silence comforts us. It's the blanket that wraps around us, keeping us warm. It's something familiar.

"You should sleep, Ashley," he whispers, his fingers finding their way to my hair, soothingly stroking it.

I shake my head. Over and over. I can't. I can't face that again.

"Ash," Chris protests, though his voice is empty of strength. I can almost feel the erratic thump of his heartbeat underneath the skin at my cheek.

Slowly, he pries my head from his torso, my energy so weak, I can't find any life in my body to stop him. And he looks at me. He finds my eyes and looks at me. And I look back into the pools of his. The dripping tears, the harrowing sorrows. The truth.

"They're dead," he murmurs, looking into my eyes for every single second he speaks. He doesn't disconnect our gazes even once. Neither do I. I feel safe in them. "They can't get us here. It's all over."

I feel myself nod, the words settling underneath my skin.

Chris sees it. He watches the way my fear calms, my breathing slowly regulating. His hands are so soft, so gentle. They guide me back to lie down on the bed – the cold, foreign bed – and he carefully adjusts the bed sheets back over my body, fingertips brushing against my leg and then my waist and then my shoulder.

He watches me. I watch him. I don't dare look away in case, if I do, he'll disappear. Or something will happen that I won't be able to escape. It's safe in his eyes. Everywhere else isn't.

My hand pokes out from under the covers, slipping into Chris'. His smile shivers as he grips my hand firmly, assuring himself that I'm real.

Then, like it's a magical moment, there's a gentle rumble in Chris' chest as he begins to sing. " _Close your eyes, lay your head down_ ," he hums, his voice husky and jagged, not used to music. But I don't care. I want to hear his voice. It settles my throbbing heartbeat. It keeps me steady.

" _Now it's time to sleep. May you have great adventure,"_ his low voice clunkily slips over the notes. I breathe in through my nose, smelling the sound of his voice. It's rich and homely and peaceful, " _As you lie and dream."_

Slowly, I feel my eyelids dip, and Chris' hand sweep up to gently caress my cheek, my hair, to the slow, gliding rhythm of the song. _"If you're scared of the darkness, I will calm your fear. There's a light in the hallway so you know I'm here."_

His voice is so familiar. I can imagine we're home. We're curled up on the sofa, watching a movie as we usually do on Friday nights. His arm is wrapped around me, warm and cosy. His breath is soft and regular, gentle like the sloshing of a calm sea.

" _You won't need me forever. But I'll still be here. For we all have our nightmares. Even me, my dear."_

I can see everything now. We're happy. We're normal. We're at home.

" _From now on, if you need me, you can sing this song. There's a light in the hallway burning all night long."_

Gently, as if I'm being rocked on the soft waves of a sea, the lullaby sweeps me off into dreams.

" _So count your blessings every day._

_It makes the monsters go away._

_And every thing will be okay._

_You are not alone._

_You are right at home._

_Good night."_

* * *

Chris isn't there when I wake up. My eyes feel raw as I peel them open.

The room is hollow, huge, without him. My eyes are fixated on them, the more I look, the more my chest constricts. I _hate_ it. The white walls stare back at me, like they know something. Like they hold all my horrible memories and are throwing them back at my face like mud.

My palm slides across my cheek as if I can smear away the dirt myself. It only buries itself further into the pores of my skin, into my body, into my blood.

I flinch. My breath hitches. The movement erupts a sheet of prickles across my body. It's as if every inch of my skin has been stabbed with needles. My limbs are stiff, like I haven't used them in a decade. I can almost hear the squeak of oil-deprived joints as I rigidly push myself up into a sitting position, dragging the duvet up to my chin. I'm scared that if I let it fall any further, I'll see the horror of my body covered in tiny, red dots of blood, of holes where needles have been. Of crumbling limbs and peeling skin.

I crush my eyes closed. "No," I mutter, my voice hoarse and dry. It feels like sandpaper against my throat. Rough and painful. "No, no, no." My fists are tight, fingernails digging into my palms.

The words seem to comfort my mind. They're familiar to me. Familiar to my tongue. I feel my breath relaxing, returning to accompany the steady beat of my heart. I relax my fists, letting my fingers fall limp on the bed covers.

And slowly, I brave myself to open my eyes.

The door cracks open. Harsh, yellow light follows the shape of it, like a knife has sliced through the wall in a rectangle shape. I had forgotten this was a room. For a long time, the door just blended into the wall. It looked like it wasn't there. One big, white box. One big, white cage.

Hollow footsteps echo against the cold, marble floor. I catch sight of black shoes, as shiny as the white walls themselves, as they piece themselves into my room. I catch my breath. My eyes watch as a figure appears from behind the door, an unnatural smile stretched across his cheeks.

"Ashley," he coos, a voice that I'm sure is meant to sound gentle but, instead, twists eerily. "So lovely to see you awake."

He pieces across the room, the door clicking shut without him pushing it. He grows bigger and bigger the closer he gets to me.

"Who are you?" I squeeze out.

He hasn't dropped that smile from his face. His skin is waxy and wrinkled and his hair looks like someone has stuck a dust clogged mop atop his head. It's straggly and grey.

"I'm your doctor, Ashley," he calmly says as he pulls a chair from the wall, the feet scraping against the floor – a sound painful to the canals in my ears – as he places it beside my bed. I want to shuffle across my bed, as far away from him as I can. But I find I can't move. My limbs are too heavy. Too waterlogged.

Slowly, the man sits down on the chair, the wood creaking as he does.

"No," I shake my head, red tendrils of hair slapping against my face as I do. "No doctor. I don't need a doctor."

The man doesn't even react to this. Instead, he reaches over across my head, my body shrivelling away from him, and plucks a clipboard from where it had been hanging on the wall.

"How are you feeling, Ashley?"

"Where's Chris?"

"Ashley," the man calmly responds. He seems to like using my name a lot. I hate the sound of it on his lips. He twists it and morphs it, making it sound slimy and oily. "I asked you a question-"

"So did I," I blink, my throat tight and dry. But I dare myself to stare at the doctor, to glare steadily at his face. His melting, waxy face. "Where's Chris?"

The doctor sighs, smiles slowly and pops the clipboard where it was. No fresh pen marks on it. "He's right outside."

"I want to see him."

The doctor simply looks at me. His eyes are soft, but his eyelashes are like daggers. "All in good time."

Then he pulls himself up to his feet, evidently satisfied with my lack of answers, and places the chair where it originally had been. "I'll arrange a nurse to bring you some food," he casts a smile in my direction. Then paces towards the door, my breath only returning when he leaves through it.

 _He's right outside_ , he said.

I can't push away the feeling that he's lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to hear the song that Chris sang? It's called Light in the Hallway by Pentatonix.


	8. It Does Not Envy

"Bro," Josh's recognisable slur, a coy lilt to it, jolts me from my statue form. I feel like I've been staring into my coffee for hours, swirling in the dirty, brown liquid. Drowning, choking, in the sludgy milk.

I squint, like I have a headache and it's too heavy to move, and shift just enough that I can see him. Or that he can see I'm looking at him - at least attempting to. "Josh," I breathe out the last of my energy, my chest concaving like a gorge. My voice is coarse. It tastes harsh and crunchy like acorns. "When did you- what are you doing here?"

I shuffle uncomfortably in my plastic seat of the hospital cafeteria. My clothes feel crusty and stiff against my raw skin, the sweat having dried. But it's still there, ghostly haunting across my skin. The remnants of a sleepless night.

Josh shrugs nonchalantly, obviously oblivious to the entirely dark mood of the whole area. Or he's just pretending, just toying with me. I wouldn't put it past him.

"Got my..." Josh swallows as if he doesn't like the taste of the word, " _Thingy_."

Right. Of course. It's not always about you, Chris.

_Thingy_ tended to be code word for psychiatric appointment. It's less for treatment now for Josh and more for check ups. But we never know when the meds will stop working - or if he stops _taking_ them - so it's a comfort to know he's still coming to them.

At least there's a positive in _that_.

The chair beside me scrapes against the vinyl flooring, Josh pulling it out and slumping down into it. "Are you gonna-?" he drones. But before there is even a second for me to comprehend what he's implying, he reaches forward and snags my polystyrene coffee cup and downs the lot.

"Hey-" I protest, feeling my eyebrows creasing into the most animated it has been all morning.

"Ugh," Josh makes a face – that closely resembles a prune – as he peels the cup away from his lips. "You drink cold coffee?"

"Not usually," I huff, staring back at the spot where my coffee cup had once been, now left with a ring of stodgy yellow on the pristine, white table. "I kind of forgot it was there to drink- hey," I contest, diverting my attention to Josh and seeing that signature smirk on his lips. He was trying to change the subject. "Why d'you steal my drink?"

He shrugs, "You stole mine."

I stare unblinkingly at him, setting my jaw. Not funny.

"Fine," he throws his hands up, exasperated, rolling his eyes. He flops his arms back onto the table. "I... had to cover the smell somehow."

I blink. "Of what?" I ask suspiciously, almost through gritted teeth.

Josh sees the look on my face. A wide, glinting grin spreads across his. "Dead bodies," he wiggles his eyebrows and gurgles out a laugh.

I snort. It's not entirely humourless. No matter how many meds he's on, Josh is still Josh. I'm glad to have him. I'm glad he'll have me.

" _Alcohol,_ doofus," Josh practically gags at my stupidity. Though his eyes glint with humour. I'd recognise that look anywhere.

A chuckle soothes my throat, releasing the tension tightening at my shoulder blades. I slide my glasses off my nose, the jagged ends of it scraping against my vulnerable skin. I hiss. With my thumb and forefinger, I rub the gaunt, red flesh at the corner of my eyes.

This cafeteria is eerily empty.

It feels like I've been sat in this same seat for days. I half expect, when I pull myself up, for the plastic chair to be moulded in the shape of my slouched body.

"You're not supposed to be drinking?" I cast Josh a single-lifted eyebrow look. We may have been pulled taut apart, like shreds of meat, fraying at the edges. But I still knew Josh. I still knew who he was – the guy who I dubbed my best friend. My best _man_. I'm pretty sure my brain is a hard-drive of all Josh's individual looks with detailed descriptions of what they mean. We grew up together. We're practically the same person.

At least, I used to think we were. Before I discovered he'd been hiding a crucial piece of him. His mind.

His figure is blurred, my eyes void of my glasses. It's nice to have the relief for the raw flesh of my nose – it gives my skin the opportunity to _breathe_.

Josh's figure shrugs unevenly. I barely catch the blurry shape of a smirk. "Well," he replies smugly. "It wasn't me who had an open bar at his wedding."

I let out a sharp laugh. You had it coming, Chris. Way to pull that one, Josh.

Before I can retort, I hear the distinct sound of buzzing in Josh's pocket. He flinches and shifts, shoving his hand into the pocket to pull out is cellphone.

I slide my glasses on just in time to see Josh's forehead crease as he peers at the screen.

"Sam?" I ask cautiously. It's a sensitive topic for him. I know he's treading carefully when it comes to her.

Josh swallows. He nods.

I cock my head to the side. A suggestion. "Gonna answer it?"

The muscle in Josh's jaw twitches. I can almost see him holding his breath. A strain on his neck. He shakes his head.

A sigh slides out of my throat. "It's been over a year, Josh," I piece my words, careful not to probe him too much. "Surely she can't still be unreachable."

He'd said that he was going to do it last night. A whole declaration, a dedication to the Best Man and Maid of Honour tradition – maybe that's why he'd been drinking. To give him the courage to say what he wanted to.

But he'd never been given the chance.

Josh looks distant as he shakes his head again. His eyes are fixed on the screen of his phone. I'm pretty sure his fingers are shaking. The echo of when he was unstable. When he was on the edge. When he was in prison.

The phone stops buzzing. Silence fills the hollow cracks between us. Like sloshing water.

I break my lips open again, reaching my hand over to cautiously pat him on the shoulder. But another voice cracks between us. A foreign voice; "Christopher Griffin?"

I snap my eyes up. The nurse stands not far away from our table. Her small hands are clasped together, fiddling and unsure. She looks like an intern. I'm pretty sure this must be her first day.

It takes me a second to adjust, part of still me clinging to the cellphone, to helping Josh. Then, slowly, I pull a smile up my cheeks. An encouragement. My lips part. "I-"

"That's me!" Josh sparks to life, swivelling in his chair and sending the nurse a bright grin.

I stare open mouthed, wide eyed at him. What the hell?

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders easing. A relief that she's successfully completed her first mission. If only she knew.

"Eh-" I poke my hand up, sending a knowing glare in Josh's direction. Making a point. "Actually-"

" _Actually_ ," Josh cuts me off with a pleasant, meaningful smile. His eyes flicker in my direction and I'm convinced I see him wink. I almost laugh. "He's got an appointment in the psychiatric ward. Do you know where it is?"

The nurse nods, pride spilling over her features. This is something that she actually knows.

I shove a snort back down my nose. I shake my head in amusement. As much as this is infuriating, it is infuriatingly _Josh_. I know _exactly_ what he's doing. He's trying to avoid his appointment. And in the most non-subtle way possible.

If I didn't find it so amusing, so _distracting_ _,_ I'd be trying to stop him.

"Of course," the nurse smiles, pointing out the signs that direct towards the psychiatric wing of the hospital. Subconsciously, I nod and find myself playing along.

Josh looks smug, his arms crossed over his chest as the nurse swivels back round to him and carefully says, "Christopher?"

Josh purses his lips and nods sharply in a _highly_ inaccurate impression of me.

I do _not_ nod like that, Josh.

"Would you mind coming with me?" She asks. Josh grins, his smile spilling over his face like a pool of water. His teeth glint. So does his eyes. Mischievously.

He does that stupid nod again.

I glare at him. I fight to stop myself from laughing.

I could hit him.

Slowly, achingly obvious that he's wiggling eyebrows at me, he pulls himself up from the chair. He's doing it slowly on purpose. He's making his point. Shoving it in my face. Today, he's Christopher.

Winking once more in my direction, he swivels round to the nurse. "Lead the way!" He perks enthusiastically, making exaggerated gestures. I do not _gesture_ like that, Josh.

I chuckle, relaxing back into my chair. Okay, maybe I do.

Josh slinks off with the nurse, pacing big steps. And for a brief moment wiggling his butt. I roll my eyes.

Seems like I'm not the only one who knows my best friend well.

"Remember!" Josh calls back to me, a grin too wide for his face as he stretches over his shoulder to look. "Your _appointment_ is at _twelve_ o' _clock_!"

I snort, holding up an _okay_ sign with my fingers.

Josh and the nurse slip away down the corridors, leaving me alone again. And I'm pretty sure I see him try to pinch her ass. I roll my eyes.

Be careful with my reputation, Josh. Remember, I'm _engaged._


	9. It Does Not Boast

My tears are dangerous.

They balance on the sharp edges of my lower eyelids, tiptoeing across eyelashes like high wires. They could plummet any moment. Fall and splatter against the hard surface of my skin. Gone. _Dead_.

I feel each life inside each tear. Like a fluttering, terrified heart of a bird. A piece, a shard of something. A memory. Each tear that falls is accompanied by the exploding sound of a gun firing. A scream. A life dead.

I see her. When I sleep, I see her trapped in my mind. Like my skull is a prison for her.

She's always in the same position. Sitting, hunched. Staring, terrified, right at the black, inky gun trained on her eye.

_Emily_.

" _Leave!"_ My words are not my own. I hear them floating inside my brain like ghosts. They didn't belong to me, to my throat. They belonged to fear. They were captives of it. _"Get out!"_

Emily's features crack. Like stone, like marble, fractures scar their way down her skin as if she were made out of pottery. First, it's her mouth; twisting and darkening, teeth protruding out of thick gums. Her skin whitens, peeling away from her lips, gaunt red flesh underneath. And then her eyes and sinking in. Blackness consuming them.

And I choke as her hair is ripped away from her forehead, skin brittle like dead plants, and she's not Emily anymore.

She's the maniac. She's _Josh_.

Trapped in my head. Trapped in my mind.

She's Josh.

_I'm_ Josh.

I'm-

"Ashley?"

The timid voice pokes round the door. I snap my eyes from my brain to the room. The cold, empty, white room. Smudged by tears, as if they are coated on the walls.

Heavily, I move my head, my neck rusty and clanging, needing oil. I see the doorway. The sharp light shining behind it. The nurse smiling carefully around it.

"Yes," my voice cracks, the word foreign. Far away. _Cautious_.

My voice is raw like sandpaper. It scratches at my tongue. I think I taste blood.

Taking my word as confirmation, the nurse relaxes, stepping in with a tray of food. Her flat shoes squeak against the shiny, smooth floor. Like it's water. Like it's _blood_. Drained of it's colour. "The doctor brought me here to bring you something to eat," she smiles, setting the tray down beside me - on a table that's connected to the bed. She swivels it around so it's hovering just above my lap. "And," she glances up with a caring smile and glint in her eyes. "Your fiancé."

I jerk up in my bed. "Chris?" I ask hopefully, eyes darting to the doorway.

The nurse nods tenderly. "Yes."

Wordlessly, she gathers up herself, slipping back to the doorway. I keep my eyes on the door, waiting for _him_ to walk through. Waiting for his recognisable silhouette, the black rims of his glasses, the familiar shuffle in his walk.

The nurse nods to someone behind the door. I hold my breath.

She sends me a final smile. My features are too numb to respond. They've been frozen in ice for too long.

The nurse slips through the door, replaced by a figure.

The door clicks closed.

My throat chokes.

Because I see him. I see _me_.

He lifts a jagged finger up to his crooked lips. _Shh_.

"Josh!" I croak out a cry, my body deflating and tightening all at the same time. He's not Chris.

Josh rolls his eyes, letting out a sigh and glances back towards the door; in case it will fly open, the room spilling with police arresting him for impersonation. "I told you to shut up," he groans. But there's a playful lilt to his tone. Satisfied that no one has heard me, he shuffles in my direction, his lips tugged into a smirk, as he pulls over the same chair the doctor had.

"What are you doing here?" My voice shivers as I stare at him. I don't know how I feel about him; here, alone with me. His lips scarred on his face in a permanent, humorous scowl. Sown together after it had been torn apart in a scream when _he_ had been torn apart. By that saw.

But he hadn't, had he?

Because he was here. Wasn't he?

My heart beat hammers. My breath quickens. Maybe he's not here. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's a _ghost_ -

"I'm real, dumbass," Josh rolls his eyes, his body hunched over as his forearms are sprawled over his knees. "I know that look," he cocks his head, watching me. His eyes bulge. He's studying me.

"What?" I breathe, my bed covers suddenly feeling as thin as paper. My body feels cold, my skin exposed. Like he can see ever crevice of me. Every missing piece, carved out by fear, by terror. I feel vulnerable. My flesh itches, like his very gaze is made out of maggots.

I swallow, stealing some resolve. "I said, what are you doing here?"

Josh's grin cracks apart his face. "I've come to see my _love_!" He exclaims, exaggerating each syllable, throwing his arms out wide. Like he's expecting a hug.

Though I'm pretty sure he'd fall over if I gave him one. He'd recoil.

Hugs don't sit _right_ with him.

"Very. Funny," I bite at my lip, spitting out each word.

Josh only responds by throwing back a laugh, almost toppling the chair back with his weight. He catches himself on the bed side table before it can.

"Where's Chris?" I ask. My tongue curls around the words effortlessly. I've said it a lot recently. Right? I have, haven't I? My mind clouds, days merging together. Clouding over.

Josh shrugs one shoulder. "Being me," he snorts.

I huff. "Lucky him," my voice retorts sarcastically.

"Hey," Josh perks up, looking at me pointedly with a single raised eyebrow. He pairs it with a grin. Like they're fashion statements. Like he can wear them like earrings. "I'm a very _desirable_ person."

I want to say ' _Yeah,_ _by the police,'_ but something stops me. A remembrance of Chris. Of how much Josh means to him. I'd tolerated Josh for that very reason. I'd accepted him as Best Man. I was prepared to see him at our wedding, even if he'd forced a gun in my fiancé's hand and told him to shoot. Even if the mere glimpse of him had filled me with terrors and fear and _anger_.

But words are useless. Even If they're mine, the words I speak feel so far away. So _distant_ , like they are coming out of someone else's mouth. Clouded by layers and layers of lies and bitterness and something _deranged_.

But my thoughts feel closer. Too close, like they're suffocating me. Wrapped around my neck like bed sheets. Like tentacles. Like wendigo claws.

My brain is engulfed with them, my thoughts. Flickers of guilt. Of fear. Of _If Only'_ s. They're in pieces, shards of glass, pieces of a strewn jigsaw. Muddled. No sense. I can't make sense of them.

Frustration builds up in me. Squeezing my muscles, tensing my bones, numbing me. I want to claw the flesh of my head open, crack my skull in two, and reach in to sort them out. To under _stand_ them.

My prison bars are made up of the metal of my thoughts.

And I'm consumed by them again.

"How do you do it?" I ask quietly, the strength it takes just to say those words draining me. My eyes are far away as they stare mistily into the air. Focused on the back wall. And yet not focused at all.

Josh pauses. "Do what?"

I swallow. The words I'm about to say are too big for my mouth. They're brittle and chunky and too _heavy_. They belong in my stomach. They belong in my feet, my toes. "Handle it."

My body absorbs enough courage to do it. To look at him. I nibble at my dry lips with nervous teeth as I finally swivel my head to meet his eyes. He looks back at me. I feel so vulnerable,so exposed, seeing the ones so _similar_ to mine. The dark depths. The hidden caves inside his irises. Stalactites dip and spike, dripping down like tears. Water sloshes along blackened rock, darkness swallowing the tunnels. The secret corners. The _mines_.

After a while, he finally parts his lips. And his face isn't smiling anymore. His muscles have dipped into an expression that doesn't seem natural on his face – understanding. _Listening_.

Then he breathes. And his voice is the most genuine I have ever heard it. "I don't."


	10. It Is Not Proud

My laughter drains, leaving me with an all too familiar strain on my cheeks, tugging at my skin. It feels like I haven't used these muscles in so long. I probably haven't.

The air without Josh has fizzled, pungent with loneliness. Emptiness. It's almost like waking up from a dream, sharply being punched in the gut with the aggression of reality.

My shoulders feels stiff as I roll then, hearing my joints cracking. I wince, instantly chuckling. Ashley would have hit me for that. She hates it when I crack my joints. It makes her squeal and cringe. And screw her face up, her nose wrinkling. So cute.

No. Wait.

I forgot.

The smile dips from my lips, dragging my face down. I let out a sigh, those hopeful thoughts escaping my body like I'm a deflating balloon. It's easy to forget. To pretend that everything is normal, that nothing is wrong. For a second, it's blissful. It's hopeful. A pocket of air where I can actually _breathe_.

Then everything comes crashing down. My throat closes up, the fists of reality compressed around my windpipe. Because it's even easier to remember.

I sigh, massaging the creased skin on my forehead with tired, aimless fingers. _Get it together, Chris_ , I hiss at myself. I can't keep moping about, acting like a wounded deer. Josh would probably call me Emo. _"You're a coward, Christopher."_

Yeah, you're right, Josh. I _am_ a coward. I'm even too scared to let that part of me go. I pretend to be strong; I pretend to be the rock that Ashley can cling on to. But, inside, I'm a puddle. I'm quivering. I'm the sloppy, shifting sands, the blowing seaweeds that needs the rock just as much as anyone else.

" _You're a coward, Christopher."_

Damn right.

I grit my teeth, my intestines knotting. Frustration – at _myself –_ grips my hands into biting fists. I curse myself.

_Man up, Chris._

With a sharp groan, I snap up from my seat, irritation punching over the now empty coffee cup. It topples over with a soft thump that only polystyrene can make, and rolls leisurely off the canteen table.

Seriously. I laugh shortly at myself, my frustration seeping out of my pores, like someone has pricked me with a needle, deflating me, and I sigh coolly, drained. It's so typical me to be mad at something and then instantly diminish. Like I can never hold on to anything. I'll probably start apologising to the cup soon – why not throw the floor in for extra measure?

With a low chuckle, I bend down and pick up the cup, the polystyrene cracking in my grip. Throwing it into the nearest bin, I roll my shoulders and let out a breath.

I better go and rein Josh down before he does any _more_ damage.

It feels like an age since that day when Josh was released from prison. Sam had asked me to come along with her to meet him outside of the gates. At first, I'd been apprehensive – Ashley was still wary of him and I wasn't even sure if Josh wanted to see me. But something had tugged me. Something had persuaded me to go.

Maybe it was our history. Maybe it was the memories of Josh as my best friend – all the years of growing up together, of sneaking midnight snacks and endlessly playing Crash Bandicoot on the PS1. Maybe it was the need for a new start, to begin again. To forgive again.

Whatever it was, it worked.

"Hey, bro," I'd offered a cautious, slightly tilted smile, keeping my hands firmly stuffed in my jean pockets. Josh had lumbered out of the prison doors, a free man, glancing around in awe like he'd never seen the sky before. He was breathing deeply, in case his chance to smell fresh air would be snatched away from him any second.

The second Josh's eyes had met mine, there was a recognition in them. A flicker of realisation. And his face had cracked in a grin; "Cochise."

That word – that single word – had burst inside my chest, filling me up with warmth. So many memories were tied to those seven, simple letters. And, as soon as I'd heard them, I couldn't help but grin too. It was effortless.

Yet, before I had a chance to even respond, Sam had boldly bounded for him and captured him in a hug. In one swift move, she managed to knock all that fresh air right out of him.

I think I saw him blushing.

I jerk out of my memories. A sharp, buzzing in my pocket stabs against my thigh.

Exhaling, I stick my fist in my pocket and pull out my cellphone. One text.

_**Sam:** Have you seen Josh?_

Didn't take her long. I'm surprised she didn't text me even earlier.

My phone instantly buzzes in my hand, like she's had an after thought.

_**Sam:** How's Ash?_

I don't answer. As much as I know Sam means well – I think it's impossible for her _not_ to – Josh needs to approach her on his own. Sure, throwing a guy into a situation where he has to choose to shoot himself or the girl he likes speeds things up a bit. But Josh needs time. And space.

And so do I.

I plop my cellphone back in my pocket, feeling the familiar weight against my thigh. Breathing in the new energy Josh left lingering around with the dust particles, I amble out of the hospital canteen, tracing my feet back towards Ashley's room.

* * *

"Excuse me?"

I reach out to grab the attention of the passing nurse – the one from earlier. The one Josh duped into thinking he was me. I have to stiffly bite my lips to stop them quirking up in a smirk at the stupid memory.

Startled, the nurse stumbles to a halt, blinking up at me with innocent, enthusiastic eyes. I cringe. I feel bad that I let Josh tease her like that. I hope she didn't get in trouble for it. I'd feel even worse.

"Yes?" She asked, her lips poised to answer any question. Then a flash of recognition flickers in her eyes. "Oh! You were wanting to go to the psychology ward! This isn't the right way. Let me show you-"

"Ah, no," I sheepishly smile, apologising for interrupting her. She folds her lips quickly, making up for her mistake. "Actually, I wanted to ask; where did Jo-" I cut myself short before I make the mistake. "My _friend_ go?"

"Oh," her face brightens – this one is a question she can answer. "His fiancé's room. Just down the corridor."

My face drops. A huge rock plunges in my stomach. _Plop. Wallop. Thud_. I should have known.

"Thanks," I mutter, not even managing to scramble a smile back on my face as I brush past her down the corridor.

"I haven't even told you what room number it is!" the nurse cries behind me, panicking that she hasn't fulfilled her job.

I shift my shoulders uncomfortably, acutely feeling the clammy skin of my palms. "Don't worry," I grumble. "I know."

* * *

In panic and indignation, I pace down the corridor, my heart thumping in my chest. The soles of my shoes scuff against the cold floor, squeaking. I squeeze and un-squeeze my fists, I try not to visualise the worst thing that could happen.

If he has hurt her. If he's done _any_ thing to her-

My heart thumps. My feet skid to a stop.

_Wait. Chris. You trust him. You're supposed to trust him._

My back slouches. Thank goodness there's no one hear to witness it. I breathe out slowly, the tension rolling from my shoulder blades.

_You_ do _trust him._

The realisation hits me like a slap in the face. Like a punch in the gut. Josh would probably be the one to do it.

_It's Ashley you're worried about._

I know it's the truth. It's stupid to deny it. Ashley; ever since the prank, she's been terrified of Josh, or what he means. I can't really blame her. She wasn't Josh's best friend. She wasn't obliged to forgive him, to stand by him no matter what. In some sick, bizarre way, Josh and I had taken our own kind of wedding vows when we'd become best friends. ' _Til death do us part._

My heart rattles inside the prison bars of my ribs.

It's Ashley I'm worried about. What she could do. How she could react. What she's _capable_ of.

I can't really trust Josh to be _sensitive_.

I swallow hard, catching sight of the outline of Ashley's room door not far away. Just up the corridor. A few paces away.

With a calm enough breath – so I don't go barging in there, burning with flames of anger – I piece my way down the corridor, focusing on my steps.

A bubbling laughter trickles through the doorway. I freeze. Ashley?

It's followed by an equally unusual, rumble of coarse laughter. I press myself against the door, listening, eyes widening. Padded, uneven footsteps, giggles and chuckles. Everything I had _not_ expected to find when I came to this door.

And I can't help but feel it's not a good thing.

With a steady hand on the handle, I click it, the door creaking as I push it open.

Josh is stood in the centre of the room, legs wide, a goofy grin on his face as he performs for Ashley. He coughs, his hair a mess – and I suddenly realise it sort of resembles _my_ hairstyle. I subconsciously lift my hand as if to inspect it, to cover it – and he holds his cellphone in his hand.

" _You used to call me on my cellphone_ ," Josh drawls out the familiar tune, pitchy.

"You're right!" Ashley practically squeals, huddled up – in anticipation and excitement – at the head of her bed. "He's _always_ looking at his phone!"

Instinctively, I pull the door back a bit – just in case they see me. Just to shield me.

They're talking about me. Joking about me.

Jealously niggles at my bones. I should be happy to see such a smile of Ashley's face – on both their faces. But something stabs in my chest. Ashley's never been able to have that much fun with me. We were either caught up with nightmares or with court cases or with weddings. There was never time. There was never _air_.

And yet. Last night, the first time we've just been able to _let loose_ – and that's the time she _breaks down_.

How is it that _Josh_ can so easily – effortlessly – make her feel carefree again without causing that. I'm her fiancé. I should be able to do anything for her.

My energy wilts, frustration at myself lingering – but without any stamina left to sustain it – and I slowly push the door all the way and step into the room.

"Chris!" Ashley lights up, instantly turning her eyes to me. I force myself to smile back, though the relief of seeing her isn't faked.

"Hey, bro," Josh stutters like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. But he accompanies it with a blinding, sheepish smile. His eyes are alive – more than they have been in ages. He's in his element. If he didn't have a criminal record, he'd be great working with kids. He grins in Ashley's direction. "You're gonna be discharged."

I eye Josh carefully. Warningly.

"Really?" Ashley sparks, her eyes sizzling in excitement. They snap to me, hopefully. I feel my stomach drop to my toes. "We can go home?"

My jaw is stiff. "No, Ash," I say carefully. "You're not ready."

Ashley's face creases in confusion. Indignation. "I feel fine," she states plainly.

My breath shudders. She doesn't know what I know. She doesn't realise. I step forward, piecing my way over to her bed side. She's stubborn, but not enough to not allow me to take her hand. "We just-" I try and explain, finding her eyes with my own. "We've got to stay here a little bit longer. Until they find out how they can fix you-"

"I don't need fixing," Ashley sets her lips, her eyes strong. Yet her hand in mine is still as soft as it has ever been.

"She doesn't need fixing," Josh agrees. I send him a sharp gaze. Okay, maybe it wasn't the right wording. Maybe I'm too cautious with her, like she's a child. Like she's something breakable.

But I'm _scared._ I don't want to hurt her more than she already has been hurt.

I don't know how to _do_ this. I've never known how to do this. Ashley isn't Josh. Ashley isn't the same.

And yet; maybe they're more similar than either of them would like to admit.

Ashley squeezes my hand with hers. I carefully look back at her, finding her gaze. Finding the settling, familiar place where we just have to _look_ at each other to know. She's a lot stronger than I think – than I allow myself to think. I know she can tell how I'm feeling, even if she doesn't understand the full scale of it. Suddenly, I know what she's trying to say. _You're not alone,_ her eyes whisper. _You know that._ And I realise she's right. I've never been alone.

I've got her. And, I chuckle, I've got Josh too. I glance at him, the tiniest smile tugging at my lips. He raises his eyebrows then proceeds to wiggle them. I stop myself from snorting and settle with shooting him a virtual shove in the shoulder.

Besides Ashley is strong. Even if it doesn't seem like it now, she's _always_ been strong. I don't have to look after her on my own. She can help me. We can do it together. We can fight whatever this is together.

"Chris," Ashley says, her voice steady. I look at her. At every inch of skin, of each freckle, of each eyelash that still belongs to the Ashley I loved – to the Ashley I was going to marry. To the Ashley I _am_ going to marry – and I breathe. "Take me home?" She asks. No, she says. And her words linger in the space between us. A place that never moves in time – always steady, always there.

I part my lips, breathing out. Feeling myself nod. "Okay."


	11. It Does Not Dishonour Others

The sun feels like freedom. Like fresh air, sizzling on my skin, glowing and warm. I breathe it in, closing my eyes and soaking in the gentle rustle of the breeze and the chirping voices and even the roar of car engines hurtling past. It's like I haven't experienced this in _days_. Like they've kept me locked up for too long. Away from the sun for too long.

I grip onto Chris' hand, my heart beat dancing to the rhythm of his pulse.

"Ashley!"

My eyes snap open, met with the gleaming smile of Sam who's hurrying up the car park, her car bleeping closed as she locks it behind her.

Instantly, my eyes flicker to Chris. He's wearing one of his classic, sheepish smiles. "I figured I'd call the others," he offered with a shrug. Despite his grin, a flutter of doubt passes over his eyes. Like he's not sure he should have done it.

I cock my head. My eyes tease him, my lips smiling. _You don't need to worry._ Any friendly face is better than those within the hospital.

Especially that doctor. I've never really been a fan of doctors. Not since Dr. Hill.

The plastic cylinder had rattled against the doctor's desk as he'd pushed it towards me.

"Two doses a day," he'd informed with meaningful, raised eyebrows, his gaze flicking between both me and Chris, a way to make sure we both understood.

I had felt the order stiffen the air, sharp and stabbing, a throbbing pain in my chest. But I'd nodded. And swallowed.

"And a weekly check up," he had added, as I carefully reached forward and plucked the cylinder up from the desk, thumbing the label. _Antipsychotics_ was printed across it in bold, black letters. It felt threatening. Something I couldn't hide from.

Something I still can't hide from.

My free hand slips into my pocket, wrapping around the plastic cylinder. Feeling it's weight.

I refuse to let it pull me down.

Chris had been tense. His jaw was set, his muscles tight. I'd caught a glimpse of his eyes sharpening behind his glasses – like the sharp points of pencils. Poked, prodded. Pierced.

He wasn't looking at me at all. I'd needed him to look at me.

I couldn't be in that room, not with that doctor. Not alone. Not feel so alone.

On instinct, my hand had slipped from my lap, searching for its home in Chris'. My fingertips grazed his cold palm. Chris flinched, blinking out of his trance. He had glanced to me, surprised. And I'd held his gaze; careful.

Then, there it was. That smile of his, curved and comfortable. And he'd clasped his fingers around mine, fitting into place. I can still feel that lingering of relief that had soaked my body. Breath out, remember the familiar touch. Like it's a part of me. A part of my design. Made to touch him.

That breath, that sense of relief, is almost knocked out of me as Sam's body tumbles into me in a hug. I stumble back, eyes widening, hand disconnecting from Chris'.

"It's so good to see you," she murmurs, squeezing me.

I find myself stiffening, glancing over her shoulder at Chris with surprised eyes. He only chuckles and with that single smile, and the warmth and familiarity of Sam's hold, I find myself hugging her back.

"Thanks," I smile as she pulls away, her eyes glinting. But they're unfocused. Flicking to behind me.

Chris moves, reaching to pat her on the shoulder. "He's in there," he confirms and the realisation flicks in my mind. _Josh_. She's wondering about Josh.

I'm wondering about him too.

It all sound of mingled into a blur. Like my mind. First, Josh coming into the hospital room. Then, me getting angry at him. Him teasing me, prodding me, trying to get a reaction. Me biting back.

And then all our head butting had equalled each other out. For a moment, there was a cease fire. An unspoken agreement to let ourselves breathe.

And then, as if we'd just stumbled upon it, we discovered the one thing we had in common. Chris.

"He's got an appointment," Chris explains clearly to Sam.

For a moment, I spot a glance of disappointment cross her features. She was hoping to see him. It's like she's been hoping that same thing since he was released from prison. Then she rests that usual, comfortable smile on her face. And then she shrugs nonchalantly – I have a feeling, inside, it was far from that – and says, "I'll catch him later then."

"Hey!" A friendly, recognisable voice calls from the car park, accompanied by the shutting of two car doors. "Ash!"

I flick my eyes to the car park, Chris' and Sam's following, squinting my eyes at the sharp, bright sunlight piercing over the tops of buildings. I catch the sight of a dark skinned man sauntering towards us, one arm waving in the air while the other hooks around the waist of a petite blonde.

Matt.

The smile on my face is contagious.

"Hey, guys," Jessica hums as they reach us, her smile polite – still treading water.

A bud of relief blooms in my chest. Seeing Matt – his smiling face, his forgiving face – releases tension inside my ribs; untying a knot. _He's forgiven you, Ashley_. Have I told myself that before? My mind squints, too foggy, too mangled.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Matt offers, his eyes kind, stark in comparison with the _E_ tattoo still twisting on his neck.

_Emily_.

The name punches me; a dagger sliced right through my skin, burying in right to the handle. Emily. The one I killed. The one I let die. I choke, feeling blood rush to my head, to my throat. Blood dribbles out of my mouth like saliva, dying my skin red. Shiny, blood red.

Chris' arm captures around my waist, the sudden contact ushering the blood away. Snapping them away, like the blink of an eyelid. Gone. He squeezes me reassuringly; protectively.

I look up at him, my skin clammy, my breath rapid. Did anyone else see that? The blood? Can anyone else see the guilt?

"Do you guys wanna grab a coffee?" Matt suggests, jabbing his thumb behind him in a general direction.

Feeling the rhythm of Chris' heart beat in his chest, I slow my breathing. Focus on it. _One. Two. Three._

"Jess has got an afternoon off before she's going back to class," Matt explains, passing a glance to Jess at his side. I can feel Sam's teasing glance flicker between them and us. Knowing.

Without even any labels, it's clear they're connected.

Like Chris and I.

Jess smiles back up at Matt, a picture captured in sunlight, a moment of bliss. Something she allows herself.

At least she's been giving herself permission to pursue a new passion of hers. Law.

There had been something that had sparked and sizzled in her eyes at the Dr. Hill trial; like she could imagine herself in the same position as one of those lawyers – the prosecution to convict those who deserved the punishment of justice, or the defence, to defend those who needed it most. It was promising, hopeful, to see Jessica's motivation and ambition flickering – just for a little while.

I was so pleased when I heard the news that she'd got into law school.

"Our favourite cafe is just around the corner?" Matt shrugs, offering.

Before anyone else can accept, Chris rolls one shoulder apologetically. "Nah," he breathes, a quirk in his smile. "I gotta get Ashley home."

* * *

_Home._

My eyes travel up the apartment building, the familiarity setting into my skin.

I've missed it.

Like Dorothy missed Kansas.

Like Elizabeth Bennett longed for Longbourne.

Like I haven't set foot in it in years.

"It's good to be back, huh?" Chris smiles and I can see he's trying. He's trying to relax, he's trying to be cheerful. But I can still see the worry underlying his skin, the grip of his hand, the flick of his eyes. He can't hide it from me. I don't want him to hide it from me.

"Chris," I plead, capturing his other hand and facing him fully. The breeze is cold here, not helped by the rushing traffic behind us. But I cling onto his warmth, letting myself soak in it. Forgetting everything else. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry."

With a smile – not one of forced happiness this time, but of concern – he sighs, "I can't help it."

I look into his eyes. Just look, feeling him look back. It's been so long since I've really searched them. They slosh and splash like waters, rippling with emotion. I squeeze his hands. He squeezes mine back, the cold bones of mine lost in his warmth.

And then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, I push myself onto my tiptoes and press a kiss – gentle and intimate, the slightest hint of orange – onto his lips. Like the kiss I would have given him on our wedding. After we'd both uttered 'I do'.

And I can't help but feel that maybe this kiss was always going to be better.


	12. It Is Not Self-Seeking

The remains of the wedding are still scattered around the apartment, like bones of a skeleton.

The walls echo with their hollowness as I push the door open, hearing it scrape against the welcome mat. Yoda stares up at me smugly, the words _"_ _Welcome you are"_ printed boldly underneath him. It had been a birthday present, one Ashley had picked out for me when we had been apartment shopping.

After the case against Dr. Hill had been successful, our compensation money had been exactly what we'd needed to finally jump off that spring board and decorate our apartment. Ashley had pretty much taken control, painting inspirational quotes from famous authors across the blank, canvas walls. Every morning, I woke up to the wisdom of Elie Wiesel in _"Every moment is a new beginning"_ and was interrupted in the bathroom by Stephen King; _"Books are a uniquely portable magic."_

Well, it was cheaper than wallpaper.

Ashley's eyes light up as we step into the flat, her nose twitching like she's inhaling the scent of _home_. A familiar smile dances on her lips and it reminds me of when we used to be carefree, when we didn't have a wedding or a Dr. Hill to worry about. Those precious moments seem fewer and fewer.

Ashley pads into the hallway as I close the door behind me with a click.

A little squeal erupts out of Ashley's lips, followed by hurried footsteps and a soft thump. Chuckling, I turn away from the door to discover Ashley has tackled the sofa, deliriously sprawled out across it. I let out a short snort. "Excited much?" I muse, raising my eyebrows.

Ashley giddily nods. I watch her, eyes misty, reality diluting my smile. She looks like a child – innocent and naïve. Like nothing could hurt her. I would give anything to curl up with her, cradling her head in my lap and pretending that there was nothing that could ever harm us in the world.

Instead, I drop my gaze and roll my shoulder, hearing it click. "I'm gonna get changed," I offer a smile into the air, my numb fingers plucking at the buttons of my shirt.

Ashley looks up at me and nods wistfully before she grabs the nearby television remote.

I slip out of the room, heading to the bedroom as I hear the gentle humming of Disney's Cinderella vibrate from the television screen.

My fingers flick the buttons of my shirt out of their loops and, stiffly, I pull my arms out of the clothing, the fabric sticking to my clammy back. She looks at me like I'm a hero, like I'm her Prince Charming. I wish I could live up to that.

Defeated, I throw the crumpled up shirt onto the bed. It scatters among the make up and hair tools the girls had been using to get ready for the wedding. I'd given Jessica a key so she and Sam could come and clean up while Ashley and I were spending the night at the hotel. Obviously, none of that happened.

My eyes drop to the suitcases stacked at the end of the bed. My heart plummets with it. Our honeymoon. I'd been so excited when I'd booked the tickets to England, and the hotel in Hampshire, Jane Austen's county. Ashley would have loved it. She would have squealed with joy when I'd surprised her with the tickets.

I'd had it all planned out. I'd even bought the suit, complete with waistcoat, and the cravat – Josh had tried to push me into finishing it off with a top hat, a goofy, mischievous grin on his face. He didn't win.

I wanted to make her feel like Elizabeth Bennett for one moment.

" _I'm more of a Catherine Morland,"_ she'd mused when she'd tugged me down to watch another run through of Colin Firth's version of Pride and Prejudice.

" _Huh?"_ I'd blinked at her, confused. Sure, I knew pretty much all I could about Pride and Prejudice – Ashley had practically shoved the facts down my throat – but I was a virgin when it came to Jane Austen's other novels.

Ashley had merely smirked, obviously aware of how little I knew. _"And you're my Henry Tilney,"_ she'd teased, running her fingers up my chest.

" _I'll, uh,"_ I'd coughed, trying not to get too distracted by her touch, _"take that as a compliment_."

Sighing, I run aimless fingers through my mused hair. It hasn't been in any kind of shape since the wedding. Biting my lip, I inhale sharply. Come on, Chris. You've got to wake up. This isn't the end. This isn't a disaster. It's just a hiccup. We've been through worse.

With a burst of energy, I grab a nearby t-shirt and tug it over my head, changing out of my suit trousers and underwear into clean clothes. A shower can wait.

Rolling my shoulders, I saunter back to the living room. "Are you wanting a bath?" I glance towards Ashley who's curled up on the couch, watching dreamily at the scene where Cinderella and Prince Charming are dancing in the ballroom. She doesn't even blink in my direction.

Chuckling, I sit down next to her, my weight shifting the sofa cushions. Amused, I wave a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Ashley," I tease.

She blinks, turning to look at me. "Oh," she giggles, embarrassed, a blush tingeing her cheeks. It reminds me of the times before we started dating, when our feelings were passed in blushing, smiles and laughter. And we didn't even realise that's what it was. We were both too terrified to expose ourselves that we didn't even consider that we both felt the same way. And yet, as crazy as it might be, those times seemed like the simplest of all.

"Do you want me," I smirk, watching the way she flutters her eyelashes. She probably doesn't even realise she's doing it, "to run you a bath?" Instinctively, like it's just our little thing, I reach forward and flick her on the nose.

For a second, Ashley's face is frozen. And just that look sends a wave of horror through me - don't let her break down again. Please, I'm not ready for it. I'm not prepared for it.

But then Ashley's face cracks into a grin, and she shouts a playful, "Hey!" before tackling me.

I let out a sharp laugh, capturing her around the waist as we tumble to the floor. The wind is knocked out of me in an _oomph_ , before my eyes narrow playfully and I fight back with tickles. Laughter erupts from Ashley's throat as she kicks and squirms, my fingers targeting her waist and neck. Captured in each other's arms, we roll around across the white, fluffy rug - like it's our personal cloud, our personal heaven - and our laughters are mingled together like our kisses.

_Ding-Dong._

My fingers freeze.

Ashley breathes, stilled, looking at me. We share a glance between our eyes.

Someone's at the door.

"I'll go," I mutter, the elation of the moment gone. _No, Chris. It's not gone. It's just on pause._ Ashley nods before I stretch myself to my feet and offer my hand to her to help her up. She accepts it, finding her feet and teetering on her toes.

"I'll go have my bath," she smiles before brushing a fairy whisper kiss on my cheek, and slipping towards the bathroom. I watch after her wistfully, hoping that she's aware of how much I love her.

_Ding-Dong._

"Alright," I sigh, rolling my eyes at the impatience of whoever is at the door. "I'm coming."

I weave my way out into the hallway, unlocking the catch and opening the door.

And I almost get knocked over by a wolf bounding into the apartment.

"Wolfie!" a low voice warns from the doorway.

Wolfie's head darts back to his owner, ears pricked. Then, with his head bowed low, he sulks back to the doorway, tail drooped.

"Sorry about that," Mike chuckles, patting Wolfie on the head when he, obeying his master, sits down beside him.

"Mike," I find myself saying, scratching the back of my head sheepishly, my eyes dancing warily towards Wolfie. I don't think Wolfie has ever really liked me – and I'm not so great with him either. "Hey."

There's a beat where we're just standing there, facing each other with an open doorway in between us. Then reality kicks me straight up the backside and I step aside. "Do you wanna come in?"

"Oh, sure," Mike shrugs, a friendly smile on his face. With Wolfie close to his side, Mike paces into the hallway and, for the second time today, I close the door.

"I didn't think you were the Disney type," Mike's distant voice muses with a chuckle.

For a second, as I'm moving into the living room, I'm confused. I cast a glance, eyebrows dipped, in Mike's direction, who is standing in the centre of the room with Wolfie lying down beside him, his chin resting on his front paws.

"Oh," I laugh, catching a glimpse of the end of Cinderella on the television. " _That_ was Ashley," I chuckle, reaching for the remote and cutting the TV screen to black.

There's an awkward shuffle from Mike's direction and, for a moment, I wish we still had the sounds from the TV to fill up the silence. Then; "How's she doing?" Mike asks.

I glance at him, solemn, and nod. Then it's mixed with a shrug. "Good, I guess." I don't let myself say any more, in case I spill it all out. "We'll see."

Moving to the sofa, I collapse back against it, Mike following me. I think he still feels guilty about what happened at the trial. I keep trying to tell him it's all old news, that we've forgiven him. But guilt seems to eat away at him more than any of us. I suppose that's what happens when you kill someone.

Sam told me about the letter Emily had written to Matt. Maybe Mike could have done with one too.

"Listen," Mike starts, straighten himself up. Wolfie's ears prick up from where he's still situated on the floor. I think he's eyeing me to make sure I don't do anything I'm not supposed to. A chuckle rumbles from my chest. Everyone could do with a protector like him.

"The reason I'm here," Mike says calmly, "is because I returned all the wedding gifts I could."

I swallow. I didn't want to be reminded of that today. "Oh," my smile twitches, my eyes not focused.

Mike shifts, reaching into his pocket for something, before adding, "The rest of us; we decided to let you keep ours."

I glance towards him, surprised. Mike pulls out a set of keys and dangles them in the air before shoving them in my hands. My throat closes. I stare the keys in my hands. What is this?

"We knew the money you got from the trial wasn't only enough to patch up the apartment," Mike says, shrugging nonchalantly. _And pay for bills. And get us out of debt. And pay for the wedding._

"And I know you guys missed your flight for your honeymoon," Mike adds, a smile creeping up his face. I find myself eyeing him suspiciously. But there's a hint of playfulness in my eyes. He's up to something. "So," he shrugs. "I figured... road trip."

One beat passes. I stare at him. Let out a breath.

"You got us a _car_?!"

Mike laughs shortly. "Not just me," he snorts, but his words are cut short by my body bear hugging him.

Wolfie sharply growls, thinking I might be attacking his owner. But I'm laughing too much to even care.

"This is perfect!" I exclaim, pulling back from the hug and looking at the keys in awe. This is everything we needed right at this moment. To get away from memories, to escape.

To create new memories.

"It better not be another old clunker," I smirk, eyeing Mike. Mike simply chuckles and shakes his head.

With new found excitement, I grip the keys in my fist. I'm holding hope. I'm holding a new start.

I'm holding everything we need.


	13. It Is Not Easily Angered

The boot of the car slams shut with a jolt. Excitement shoots bubbles into the pit of my stomach. I can hear the popping of each one as they rise, fizzling like candy, like soda. _Pop. Fizzle. Pop. Fizz._

The car shudders at the jerking movement – but there isn't a whiff of a creak or a groan or the threatening of car doors falling off. I skim my fingertips across the brisk, smooth surface of the car, the sun dancing off the dark blue like it was a mirror. I'm breathing it in – the _newness_. The relief of not having to worry about the car falling to pieces on the road is refreshing.

"You ready?" Chris hums from the passenger side of the new car. I dart my head to look at him, knowing he can see the excitement in my eyes. He's standing and holding the door open for me, his eyebrows raised as if to playfully ask, _'Are you gonna get it?'_

Feeling a surge of a smile shoot up my face, I hurry to the open car door and hop in, passing a cheerful thank you to Chris. His eyes glint as I catch them, his own smile dancing on his lips. Like the pitter patter of tiny, little fairy toes.

Apparently, pills work wonders. Chris had handed me the glass of water and the prescription pretty much as soon as he'd announced we were going on a trip. By that point, whoever had been at the door had gone. But the scent of a dog still lingered.

"We won't be able to go unless you take these," Chris had insisted, his eyes strong. He'd obviously seen the reluctance in mine. I knew – I could feel the weight of his understanding.

And he evidently wasn't going to take an, " _I don't need them. I'm fine,_ " as an answer.

So, with a sigh, I'd clasped my hand around the cold glass, popped the pill into my mouth – it had felt weighty on my tongue – and, with water, had shoved it down my throat.

As if to mock me, it was instantly refreshing. Like I'd drunk a pint of fresh air. The pill; it cleaned my lungs, my stomach. It cleared the hazy film covering my eyes.

My body sinks back into the leather seat of the car, my palms gliding along the smooth, sturdy material. My skin feels each wrinkle and crease of the leather – though, if Sam had anything to do with getting us this car, she'd probably made sure it was faux leather. Everything smells so cleansed, like it's been smothered in fresh, frothy bubbles. Like the kind you get when you put too much washing powder into your washing machine. The kind you want to dive into.

The driver's seat door opens, Chris sliding into his seat.

My excitement reacts to the sound of his seatbelt sliding and then clicking into place.

He swoops his eyes up to catch mine, his eyebrows suggestive. With a firm grip on the gear stick, Chris smiles.

But there's something loitering in his eyes. Something hidden, that only _I_ can see. Worry. I feel it thump inside my chest. Like we're connected – me and him.

"You don't have to worry," I breathe, reaching out to touch him.

Like it's in slow motion, Chris looks down to my hand on his. He catches my fingertips under the edges of my palms.

"I'm pretty sure it's my job," he chuckles, though it cracks and breaks.

I offer him a smile – one that's supposed to answer everything. One that's supposed to stop any contention. And I murmur, "I'm fine."

My eyes latch onto Chris' lips – his teeth nibbling his bottom lip nervously – and I lean in, like it's the most natural thing in the world, feeling Chris' hand instinctively lifting to cup my cheek. I taste his breath. Fresh and hopeful. He brushes his bottom lip against mine. I hold my breath-

The back door swings open, a barrel of a body dashing in.

I jerk back. Chris jolts, eyes snapping open. Horror covers it.

The door slams shut and a head pops up.

I gasp, my shoulder blades hitting the cold metal of the inside of my car door, the seatbelt digging into my neck.

The rear-view mirror almost shatters as Chris glares into it, before whipping round to glare into the eyes of Josh. " _Dude!_ "

His voice is a mixture of shock and accusing.

"What?" Josh shrugs comically, inviting himself to lounge across the car's back seat. I stretch round to look at him, mouth agape. He catches my eye, smirk twisting. I shrivel back.

It feels foreign to be this... comfortable with him. Was I ever comfortable with him?

The deflating feeling is unavoidable.

Josh's grin is groggily easy. "I thought I'd hop in for the ride!"

Chris stares at him for a few minutes, the wrinkles around his mouth tightening.

Instinctively, I find myself reaching for his hand, feeling the taut veins underneath his skin. It feels more like anxiety than anger. Like he'd set out a plan for us; and now he's fretting that it's been ruined.

"So," Josh smoothly grins, swinging his arms over the backs of both our chairs, his eyes gleaming mischievously. Chris is shaking his head, but there's an underlying chuckle there. And I can feel the skin of his hand relax. He lets out a puff of air. I think we've both realised there's no reasoning with Josh.

Josh flicks his eyes between the both of us. "Where we going, guys?"

Chris clicks his tongue. I bite my lip, curl myself up into my seat and try not to laugh.

Silence builds. Like we're doing it on purpose.

Confusion spreads across Josh's face in wrinkles. "Dudes? Dudettes?" His voice strains as he waits for an answer. I don't think he likes waiting.

Chris raises his eyebrows behind his thick rims, passing me a sideways smirk. One look at Josh – one understanding of Chris' eyes – and I know exactly what this is about. After all, it's like looking in a mirror.

" _Hoes_?" Josh tries. A gasp erupts from my mouth and I slap him hard on his hand. He merely chortles, proud to have gotten a reaction out of me.

I mock a snarl at him.

He fights back with a winning smile.

" _You're_ not going anywhere," Chris tuts, eyeing Josh amusingly.

Josh juts out his bottom lip so far, somebody could probably use it as a diving board. "What? But-"

"You can't keep avoiding Sam."

Josh shuts up then. His lips fold in on themselves. That's as loud a confession as any.

A teasing smile flicks my lips. It feels easier to relax when I forget that I have anything to be afraid of around Josh.

He chews on his inner cheek, flush rushing to his face. My smile widens and I prop my chin up on the back of my chair. I know that look all to well. I used to feel it on my face too.

"I'm not avoiding Sam-" He protests. He pouts. He looks like a child.

Chris rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat before he twists the key in the ignition, the car revving to life.

Josh brightens, and I feel my stomach flip at the jolting sound, suddenly feeling the need to straighten myself in my seat again. I might have coped with the company of Josh for a short period, I don't think I can do it for a whole trip. Anxiety pricks at my skin.

"We're really going?" Josh pops up behind me as I sit properly in the seat again, adjusting my seatbelt.

I catch Chris glance at Josh in the rear view mirror, a warning look in his eyes. "Not until you strap in. I'm not driving illegally, no matter how hard you try." He says it like he's had experience with Josh encouraging him. He probably has.

Though, knowing Chris, breaking into the school a few nights ago was probably the first real illegal thing he'd done.

"Fine," Josh grumbles, flopping back into his seat and fumbling for his seatbelt.

I feel myself glance at Chris, worry creeping up my chest. Is he really taking Josh with us? Despite the ceasefire we've developed between us, I'm still nervous around Josh. There's just a twinge there, niggling at me. I don't think it'll every go away. It's like a kindling fire.

Sometimes I wish I could just blow it out.

Chris finds my eyes. He can see my worry, I know that. And I can't help but notice the relief that passes his features when he sees it. Just as my eyebrows are folding in anxious confusion, he quells it with a simple, toying smile. And I know he's planning him.

It's at these moments that I know to trust him.

* * *

" _Hit me, baby, one more time!_ " Josh screams at the top of his throat, his gritty voice grating the inside of my ears. I clasp my hands over them, cringing.

He's bounding in the back seat – as much as his seatbelt will give him room for – and almost hitting the roof with his fist pumps. Not exactly befitting the teen whines of Britney Spears.

This is about the third song he's blasted. I'm surprised his voice hasn't broken already. Though, if it did break, it would probably make his singing _better._

Chris seems just as irritated – though he rolls his eyes, smirking, like he's used to it – because he reaches forward and flicks the radio off.

"Hey!" Josh complains mid-screech, his singing – can I really call it that? – trailing off.

"I've just got to make a pit stop," Chris hums, like he's using it as an excuse to switch off the music. I'm relieved for it. I feel like I can finally breathe. I soak in the fresh air – air I haven't had to filter free of poor tasting tunes. "I'll just be a second."

Josh _hmph_ 's and flops back into his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. But by the smirk I can see in the mirror, he's satisfied with the success of his _'Irritate Chris and Ashley'_ mission.

Great job, Josh. You get an A. A for _ass_.

The car's wheels slide effortlessly around a bend. Chris flicks the indicator light on, accompanied by Josh's draining groan. I recognise the house as soon as we pull up to it. Sam's.

" _Bro_ ," Josh whines, sliding down his chair, trying to hide. I roll my eyes, the smile on my lips contagious. Chris glances at me before winking. Like we'd been in on this the whole time. I bite my lip and stifle a grin.

"Betrayer," Josh hisses, though it's deflated and lacking bitterness.

"Huh?" Chris acts, turning to look at his best friend with raised eyebrows. "Did you say something? I couldn't hear you over your hypocrisy."

Josh sneers at him like a cat. I chuckle, trying to forget what Josh's betrayal had been, before glancing passed Chris to see out of the car window.

Sam stands there, on the steps of her house, a hand hooked at her hip, a mixture of annoyance and relief spreading over her features.

It hasn't been long since I've seen her, but I can't help but feel relief too.


	14. It Keeps No Record Of Wrongs

It is incredibly easy to pretend I didn't just stitch Josh up. In the back of the car, he's muttering some kind of series of curse words while attempting to melt into the leather of the back seats. Well, if he succeeds, at least he'll have escaped Sam – she wouldn't touch leather for her own life. Not even to pull Josh out.

I occupy myself by flicking through my cellphone, pretending not to smirk at Josh's grunting and the squeaking of the car seat as he tries to shuffle to door – an attempt at an escape. But Ashley's on the ball and she's already found the child lock button and clicks it, preventing his door from opening. I glance at her, proud. Mischievous. Her eyes glimmer back at me, alive. We make a great team.

"This is kidnap!" Josh protests as he desperately tugs at the car door handle. In a second, I half expect him to clamber over me to either a) escape out of my car door, or b) hijack the car and go speeding off down the highway. Instinctively, I unplug the car keys from the socket, just in case he tries the latter.

But it's too late; Sam has already pattered her way down the pathway to the car. I almost hear Josh whimper, pressing his cheek to the glass.

"What brought you guys here?" Sam asks casually as I roll down the window. She rests her crossed arms on the window sill and makes a show of glancing towards Josh. You'd have thought her eyes were lasers by the way he groaned.

"Oh, you know," I respond, casually dropping my cellphone back into my pocket. "Just thought we'd drop by."

"Or drop me in _dung_!" Josh mutters grudgingly under his breath. Except he doesn't use the word _'dung'_.

"Great to see you too, Josh," Sam looks directly at him, her smile tight-lipped. Then her eyes flicker to me – and to Ash – and it's obvious she's still worried. Or more likely surprised that Ashley's coping so well. As if to assure her we're good – to disguise the worries that are cracking me, I capture Ashley's hand and give it a squeeze. Ashley glances up at me in surprise, before smiling, her cheeks glowing.

Sam doesn't comment on it. Instead she simply mouths the words 'Thank you.' I shrug and nod, suggesting that it wasn't a bother at all. It wasn't like I had planned to bump into Josh or trick him into visiting Sam. But having been friends with Josh for many years, you learn to manipulate situations. Josh is kind of a master at it.

"Do you want to come in?" Sam asks, smiling.

"Sure," Ashley pipes up.

"No," Josh grumbles.

Unfortunately for him, his opinion doesn't really count for much anymore.

* * *

Trying to fit four of us onto Sam's couch is like playing Tetris. Josh is crammed up against the sofa's arm, looking incredibly uncomfortable with his arms tight across his chest and knees tucked underneath his chin. It reminds me hauntingly of what he looked like only a year or so ago. When he'd broken out of prison and Sam had phoned me in a panic. And I'd had to watch him, trapped in his own shell, not even see me as his best friend any more. Then again, maybe it was me that didn't see _him_ that way.

Ashley presses up against me as Sam slips in between her and Josh, a mug of green tea cradled in her hands. She'd shoved similar ones in our hands – but Josh had quickly refused, as if he suspected she'd put poison in it. It's obvious that there's something else entirely that he's afraid of.

The porcelain of the mug warms my palms. Ashley lifts her one to her lips, blows over the surface with her soft lips and then sips at the edge of the mug. I have to stifle a laugh as her nose wrinkles and she cringes at the taste. A chuckle rumbles in my chest despite my best efforts, and Ashley sends me a glare, elbowing me in the side and almost spilling my tea in the process.

It reminds me of the endless afternoons we spent in Starbucks with our hot chocolates (Ashley) and espressos (me), using the excuse of studying to get close to each other. My skin that aimlessly brushed against hers always became hotter than the coffee ever was.

"So, how are you guys doing?" Sam muses, a question obviously directed to Ashley and myself. I'm not entirely sure Sam would appreciate Josh's answer if she asked him.

My eyes are distracted by her desktop computer open on her desk across the room, her word document open to Chapter Fifteen. She's writing a memoir – about what, she won't tell us. But it's pretty obvious it's got something to do with our mountain experiences. As soon as she'd saved the day at the courtroom all that time ago, and had apparently refused that journalist job, she'd been offered a book deal and gotten an agent – all before she'd even written anything. Some people just have all the luck.

I flutter my eyes towards Sam, startled by the question. Adjusting myself, I part my lips to answer – something nonchalant about the road trip and hotel – but Ashley perks up before I can. "We're good," she insists. It sounds like a defensive answer. She doesn't want the topic of the hospital – or her health – to come up. I don't blame her. It's something I'd rather forget too.

"Thanks for the car," I change the subject, lifting the tea to my lips and taking a sip. The steam clouds me glasses and I cringe, having to take them off and clean them against my shirt.

"Don't thank me," Sam shrugs, though it's evident by her smile that she's proud. "Jessica pitched in the most."

"Jess?" Her name hovers on Ashley's lips. It's evident that she's as surprised as I am. Sure, Jess and I have gotten closer over the years but I wouldn't have ever put us on the level to buy each other cars. We'd never been all that close before the mountain anyway, beyond bitter teasing and mocking glances.

I guess I have a lot more to thank her for than I thought. Maybe this is her way of thanking _me_.

"Yeah," Sam said casually, drinking her tea more than any of us. "She said she owed you."

"I'm going to use the bathroom," Josh grumbles, peeling himself up from the sofa and practically runs out of the room.

I nod my head towards Sam who already seems like she's gotten the hint. "You better go make sure he doesn't break your window again," I chuckle under my breath as she begrudgingly follows after Josh. Though, in reality, she's probably using it as an opportunity to talk to him – they both need that right now.

"Or steals my clothes," Sam raises her eyebrows, shaking her head teasingly before she too exits the room, the door clicking behind her.

As soon as she does, Ashley practically jumps out of her seat, letting out an relieved breath, and clatters her mug of the tea onto the coffee table. I chuckle, following suit.

"Don't tell her," Ashley jiggles up and down on her feet as if she's trying to get rid of shivers. "But I hate that stuff."

"I'll try," I smuggle myself a kiss, smothering a smirk between my lips and Ashley's cheek.

For a split second, she leans into it, letting her cheeks pinken. But as soon as they do, she flutters her attention towards Sam's computer screen, hovering towards it.

"You don't think she'd mind, do you?" Ashley asked, peering into the screen. Her eyes are alive – exactly the way they become whenever she finds a book she loves, or talks to anyone about writing. It's her passion and it's probably what bonded her and Sam.

"Her publicist would probably mind," I chuckle, following her and letting her take the desk chair.

I sometimes worry that she's jealous – because Sam got the book deal rather than Ashley. I worry that Ashley thinks its unfair because Sam only adopted the dream of becoming a published author; Ashley was the one who always had that dream. She used to talk about it all the time during our study sessions, all those years ago. She'd tell me all about her novel ideas; the epic love stories and adventures. She'd keep them secret with me, never telling anyone else. It made me feel special, like I mattered. And I always secretly wondered if she'd written anything about me.

Ashley's eyes skim over the words of Chapter Fifteen, her lips curving over the silent words. My eyes nervously glance behind me, just in case Sam comes back in. Just in case she doesn't want anyone to read this.

But the words on the screen tug at me too. And I can't help but capture a few sentences. _"I can't describe how painful it was."_ Sam's voice is alive in my head as I read. _"It was like having my heart torn out of my chest and sawn agonisingly in half along with his body on that screen. And then he was suddenly alive again. That's why I couldn't hate him afterwards. Even after everything he'd done. I just couldn't bear to face that pain again. I couldn't lose him again."_

Ashley's breath hitches. I half expect her to break into a series of _aawww's_. She's a romantic at heart, even if it involves her maid of honour and the guy who tormented her. Because Sam loves Josh. Even if the words aren't there, I can tell. Because I've felt it too – true love. The desperate love that will do anything for the other person, just to see them alive. Just to see them survive. Even if it means we go crazy in the process.

If only Josh could see that too. If only Josh knew she felt the same way.

The door creaks open and Ashley practically scrambles up from her seat, slamming her back against the desk. In a panic of guilt, I grab her wrist and dive for the sofa, barely missing the coffee table and the mugs resting on top.

We land on the sofa, breathing heavily and tangled in a mess. Sam slinks into the room, glancing at us suspiciously, but I can't break the grin away from my face or stop the chuckles from interrupting my breaths. Ashley giggles back, her cheeks rosy as her gaze teasingly flitters to mine. I feel childish. I feel free.

I can feel Sam's unconvinced glare at the back of my neck.

I cough playfully, untangling myself from Ashley and standing up, offering her my hand. "We should go," I calmly explain to Sam who has a hand hooked at her waist. "We have a hotel waiting for us."

" _Oooh_ ," Ashley coos, playing along. She practically skips as she follows me out of the room.

I can practically hear Sam roll her eyes. Her chuckle follows after us down the hallway.

Josh must still be hiding in the bathroom. The door's locked. For one last measure, I pull out my cellphone and send him a text; _'Tell her. C'._

Before I can stuff the phone back in my pocket, Ashley has already grabbed it and sent him another one; _'Or I will. A'._

I bite back a laugh. There's nothing that works better than a threat from Ashley. Josh will have to watch his back.

If he already wasn't.


	15. Love Does Not Delight In Evil

"Do you think he'll be okay?" I finally breathe when we're at a safe enough distance from Sam's house. Which is about ten miles.

Chris scrunches up his face in amusement, his eyes shifting to me for a brief second before he returns his attention to the road. "It's Josh we're talking about," Chris hums, seeming complacent. "Besides, he's with Sam. It's not like she's gonna do anything- Wait, when did _you_ start worrying about Josh?"

My breath hitches. I shoot him a sheepish smile and aimlessly pick at the fabric on the inside of the car door. When did I? When did I realise that Josh was as much a part of Chris as I was?

It makes sense. Josh shaped Chris into the man he is today. Their childhood. Their friendship. Their trauma.

I should really thank Josh.

I shrug. "I dunno," I offer. Maybe I _always_ worried about him. Maybe that's always been a part of me.

Chris exhales, glancing at me. "Hey-"

" _Turn left at the next junction_ ," a perky, English voice interjects.

I snap my eyes to the dashboard, staring at a smug looking GPS screen. I can almost feel it's digital eyes glaring me down.

Offence cracks my mouth open. "You got one of _those_?" I yank my gaze to stare accusingly at Chris. Why doesn't anyone use a traditional map anymore?

Chris' mouth stretches into a sheepish grin. "It was already in the car?"

"And," I gasp, leaning in to examine the screen. The screen flashes arrogantly. It's like a puffed up peacock, fluttering its feathers. Well, tough, he's already engaged. "You installed the ' _sexy, English, female voice_ '?"

"What?" Chris laugh, shrugging timidly. His eyes dart suspiciously to the sides of his glasses. "Is it too late to blame Josh?"

With a rippling giggle, I shoot my hand out and smack Chris playfully on the shoulder. "Yes, it's too late!" I can't help the snort from escaping when I mischievously lean forward and adjust the GPS settings to ' _sexy, English, male voice'_. "Hah!"

" _Follow the road ahead,_ " the attractive, Benedict Cumberbatch-esque voice smoothly directs.

Smugly, I cross my arms across my chest and lean back into my chair. Chris looks like he wants to melt into his.

* * *

" _Follow the road ahead._ "

"Shut up!" Chris and I both snap at the GPS screen.

It turns out that the side effects to five hours of the ' _sexy, English, male voice'_ are extreme irritation and dry throats. It doesn't help that the voice is expecting us to keeping driving forwards – when it has led us into a muddy, soggy ditch.

"Well, this is great," Chris snorts sarcastically, stress driving fingers into his hair. He's pacing outside the car, door flung open and engine running – purely to keep me warm. Stray raindrops steam up his glasses, the glint of the early moonlight catching in his lens.

"You can say that again," I mutter under my breath, seatbelt unhooked and knees pushed under my chin. Even with the car heater on, my bones are shivering.

Dark clouds gather like dust. Soggy, clumping dust. Floating in a deep, dark pond of a sky.

Raindrops pad against the windscreen, dribbling down the window like scars, darting between the shadows of dark grasses and fence poles.

Chris lifts his cellphone up to the sky again, to catch any glimpse of a signal. It's like a sponge. It soaks up all the spitting, rain water, weighing Chris' arm down. Chris' arm slaps down to his side, accompanied by one of his deflated sighs. That's the trouble with crashing in the middle of nowhere. There's no compensation. No consideration for cellphones – or for Chris' mental well-being.

"Nothing," he confirms under his breath, as if groaning it aloud makes it all the more real. He hooks his hand on top of a nearby fence pole, bordering a field. His eyes yearningly scan the dark grasses of the endless fields surrounding us. "I guess we're camping out for the night," he shrugs with a deflated chuckle, shoulders defeated. I can almost see the guilt dragging down his bones.

"Funny," I mock. I'm forcing my voice to sound normal. But it's strained. Taut. I can feel the anxieties rattling inside my head. Like my thoughts are wrapped up in little cannon balls, firing for my skull. I want to squirm, to pace about and scream to the sky.

_Stop._

_Focus on your breathing, Ashley._

That's all I have energy for. Oxygen.

The sky cracks open with a split of lighting.

My scream is cut off by the sound of rain pounding and plundering the windscreen.

"Ash!" Chris' voice yells out, drowned out by the wet, sodden water pouring around us. His body flies into the car, slamming the door behind him and wrapping his soaked arms around me, yanking me to his chest.

But it's too late. Even the beating of his heart can't protect me from the rotting, sharp teethed face glaring at me through the windscreen.

My scream is slippery, choking in my throat.

"Hey," Chris murmurs against my hair, negotiating my face away from the window. But I can't unlock my eyes from _those_ eyes. The ones that belong to skulls. Skulls wrapped by stringy skin, clinging to yellowing bone.

Long, spidery limbs perch on the car bonnet, nails digging into and screeching against the metal. It pops like crushing soda cans.

"We're safe," Chris' voice is desperate, his hands slamming against my ears as that ear piercing screech erupts against the sky. "It's only lightning."

But it's not only lightning.

This creature. It's living inside my skull. It's a part of me.

It _is_ me.

Thunder cracks against the sky. And then Chris smothers me with his body.

And everything is black.

* * *

Breaths mingle with the scent of freshly pressed sheets. Eyelashes flutter against soft pillows.

" _Do you take Ashley Rose Jacobson to be your lawful wedded wife?"_

_Chris' smile is sure. His hands take mine, warm and comforting, like blankets. He looks at me. His eyes connect with mine. They wrap around me, like the warmth of a bed._

_And his lips part. And he hums, soft smile spreading._

" _I-"_

_CRACK! A bullet smashes through his skull, blood pooling like the petals of a rose at his forehead. Like the red smearing of lipstick._

_A scream rips from my throat. I stumble back, hand slipping out of his waxy one. He collapses backwards, smashing against the floor._

_And, behind him, a shaking, bony hand points at my face. A bloody scream bubbles from my throat, my feet staggering backwards._

" _No," I choke._

_Blood dribbles down her cheek from her hollow eye. Her other is set, hardened, on me. Straggly, black hair drips down in tangles over the sides of her face. And her sharpened, varnished nail points at me. Accusing me._

" _No," I beg. I shake my head over and over. "It wasn't me."_

_And then I feel a metallic weight in my hand. I glance down at it in panic. The shape of an ugly, black gun fits into my palm. I scream, dropping it in panic, hearing it clatter against the cold, hard floor._

" _No!" I scream again, my own bloody fingers digging into my hair, turning each strand red. "It wasn't me! I didn't shoot him! I didn't!"_

_Tears choke my cheeks as I collapse to the floor, rocking back and forward. "It wasn't me," I cry over and over. "It wasn't me! It wasn't me!"_

"Hey," I hear Chris murmur, warm hands padding against my damp cheeks. "You okay?"

I crack my eyes open, peeling my eyelashes from my cheeks.

Through watery eyes, I can make out Chris' careful smile.

Slowly, I nod my head, adjusting to movements again.

My senses adjust to my surroundings. Bed side table, accompanied by a neutral lamp. Beige walls, decorated by a singular printed artwork in a plain, wooden frame. A large window breaks one wall open, leading onto a balcony. Pure white sheets wrapping around me on a bed in the centre of the room.

A hotel.

"Good," Chris breathes. Reluctantly, he pulls back.

My hand catches his wrist. He glances down at it.

Wordlessly, I feel my fingers travelling up his arm, dancing up his cheek before ghosting across the centre of his forehead. Tracing the place where the bullet hole had been.

My breath catches. Feeling skin. Feeling healed, perfect skin.

Chris gazes at me, bewildered. An amused smile tugs at the side of his lip. "Have I got something on my face?" his eyebrow quirks upwards.

I pull my fingers back, tucking them into my chest. I shake my head.

Chris' smile dips. "Good," he murmurs, his energy slipping. "Because I just had a shower."

Then he pulls away, placing a pill and a glass of water on the side table.

"I'll let you get ready," he whispers before slipping around the corner, the door to a bathroom clicking shut.

I've never felt more broken.

I've never seen him more broken.


	16. But it rejoices in the truth

My hand hovers over the hotel door handle. The cold metal grazes my fingertips, stinging my skin. I flex my fingers, like I'm practising how to twist my hand around the handle, push it down and open the door.

But I can't seem to go _past_ practising.

_Come on, Chris,_ I mutter to myself, mocking myself. _It's only Ashley._

I cringe at my thoughts. To any passer-by, I probably look crazy; hovering outside a hotel room with a hand twitch problem and my facial expressions on rotation.

_Not 'only'._ Ashley shouldn't be an ' _only_ '. She shouldn't _need_ an ' _only_ '.

With frustration burning through my muscles, I shoot my hand forward, grip the handle – the sharp, metallic edges biting into my skin – and push the door open.

"Ash?" I call out, padding into the room and shifting a smile on my face. "They're serving breakfast downstairs..."

My voice trails off into an empty room.

My breath gets tangled up in empty bedsheets.

She isn't here.

My heart thumps.

"Ash?" I whimper, hearing my voice echo. The bed covers are empty, strewn across the mattress. The bedside lamp is still hovering with a weak glow, despite the fact it's morning daylight outside. My ears desperately hope for her voice to call back, as cheerful as I always imagine it to be.

But all I hear is the humming of the breeze and the shifting of curtains. It's deafening.

My eyes snap to the balcony doors. They're open. Fear floods my throat. I choke on it.

I run. I run for the balcony doors, bursting through and crying Ashley's name. Screaming it. Begging for her. My fingers grip the freezing, metal bars of the balcony railing, eyes diving over the edge, pleading not to see her down there.

My breath is ragged. My knuckles taught tight.

I don't know what I'm even expecting. That Ashley could have scaled the wall, or climbed down. Or jumped.

I'm not even thinking. I'm running on adrenaline. On anxiety.

My mind isn't straight. It's like I'm convinced she's got some sort of wiring problem. Some virus or infection. Like she needs to be returned to factory settings.

I swear at myself. What are you even thinking, Chris? She's still Ashley. Just because she's been diagnosed, just because she needs to take medication for mental illness, doesn't mean she's broken.

But I can't help it. I'm terrified. I'm terrified of it. I'm terrified of what it has made her become.

I don't want her to become another Josh. I don't want to become the Chris I was back then, not again. Not the one who was completely ignorant to what he was going through. Not the one who was too distracted to care.

And I can't help but think that maybe I'm the one turning the people around me this way. What are the chances? My best friend and my fiancée? Both slowly succumbing to mental illness. Slowly rotting away.

Both closely related to me.

"Chris?" Ashley's curious voice hums behind me.

My breath catches. I whip around, swiping tears from underneath my eyes. Swiping away bad memories and thoughts, like they could stain my skin.

Ashley looks at me inquisitively, a tooth brush perched between her lips, toothpaste froth staining the corners of her mouth white. Her hair is streaked wet, sticking to the skin of her cheeks, her face bare of make up. She's concealed in the dim light of the hotel room, the bathroom door open behind her, her body wrapped in a towel.

She looks as innocent as a baby deer.

My breath is sharp. My body reacts on instincts. I'm running, stumbling, towards her, grabbing her and scooping her into my arms. Crushing her against me. She gasps. My glasses bump against her cheek, crooked on my nose, stabbing my eyes. But I don't care. I need to feel her. I need to know she's real.

"Chris?" Ashley laugh is half hearted and breathy, mixed with worry, formed around her toothbrush. "Are you okay?"

I choke back a sob. "Yeah," I murmur into her neck. She smells like fresh berries, like her shower gel. She smells like Ashley.

I can feel her pluck the toothbrush out of her mouth, and I can smell the fresh, minty scent of it. "Because you don't seem okay," she wheezes out a giggle.

I breathe her in. Close my eyes, feel her warmth. Remember what home feels like.

And I remember that I still love her. That this illness doesn't change her. That I won't let it change her.

And I'm scared to let her go; in case my fears come true.

Slowly, like I've finally realised what I'm doing, I peel myself away from her, my laughter broken and tentative. "I'm okay," I catch her eyes, my lips quirking up in a smile. Before I realise it, it's genuine.

"What?" Ashley's eyes narrow at me just as I reach up and wipe away the toothpaste at the corner of her mouth.

Ashley's face bursts into a blush and she frantically wipes at her mouth, skittering away to the bathroom. "Why didn't you say anything?" She calls out to me, her voice flushed in embarrassment.

I don't answer her. Instead, as my bones begin to settle, as I assure myself she's okay, I sling myself against the bathroom door frame and smile at her as she tries to wipe every smudge of toothpaste in front of the sink mirror.

"Breakfast?" I suggest with a quirked brow.

She sends me a glare, her eyes narrowing. It's saying ' _You couldn't have told me_ before _I brushed my teeth?_ '

But even she can't hide the rumbling noise that her stomach makes.

And I can't hide my grin.

I swoop in, wrapping arms around her from behind, placing my hands on her stomach. She makes a disapproving noise but I feel her lean into me. And I pull the most ridiculous, 'proud-dada' face into our mirror's reflection. "We're gonna have a food baby!"

* * *

I smile, watching Ashley butter her toast. Her tongue sticks out between her teeth as she perfectly measures out the cube of butter, before spreading it evenly, with precision, across the toast's surface.

She has never once trusted me to make her toast for her.

The first – and only – time was when I had the brilliant idea to make her breakfast in bed. It was a special occasion, some anniversary of some event. It was hard enough trying to peel myself out of bed while not waking her up, and trying not to burn the bacon. Apparently, that was nothing compared to surviving the banshee scream she'd unleash as soon as she saw the spread of butter on the toast I'd laid on her lap that morning.

"It was _not_ like that," Ashley grumbles, glancing up from the melting butter as I recount the same story to her.

"It totally was," I laugh, chomping into my bacon roll. I point at her with flowered fingers. "You should have seen your _face_! I'm surprised the neighbours didn't file a noise complaint!"

Ashley pouts, glancing down to check the status of the butter on her toast. It has to be the perfect level of meltedness, you see, before it gets _too_ soggy. I snort. Don't ask me.

"Hey guys," a voice strolls past the table we're sat at in the hotel's breakfast cafe.

Snapped out of my toast thoughts, I glance up, met with the dark, smiling eyes of Matt.

"Oh, hey," I greet him with a nod.

He's shrugged into a red plaid shirt, collar pulled up – whether consciously or not – to hide his neck tattoo. Milk sloshes in the cereal filled bowl perched in his hand, the fingers of his free fingers twitching. Like it's missing something. Like it's missing a vodka bottle.

I try to ignore it.

"Have a good sleep?" I offer as Ashley's eyes lift up to Matt, fitting a smile to her lips. I can't tell if she's comfortable with him or not.

Either way, Matt was the one who saved us last night. If he hadn't been driving past, we probably would still be stuck in that ditch. Or trudging along in the rain, hearts jumping in fear of being hit by lighting. Or imagining other things...

Ashley had flinched at first when she'd seen the car headlights pulling up. Her veins were taught and flitting, like the terrified heart of a bird.

"It's okay," I'd whispered into her hair, terrified that even my words couldn't break through to her.

I'd almost had to pry her fingers off my hand as I'd clicked the car door open, rain cracking against the windscreen.

"Hello?" I'd called out as I'd climbed out of the car, standing up to look over the roof. Rain pounded down on me, dribbling down my cheeks, clinging to my clothes and steaming up my glasses.

And I have to admit, I'd felt a cracking of fear in my chest as I watched the car slowly turn off it's engine, streams of raindrops flickering in the headlights, and creak open it's driver side door.

My bones shivered with the wet coldness, and I'd instinctively stepped away from our car, closing the door conspicuously and flicking the close button on the key, watching the indicators flashing. Ashley's protection was number one. After all, I was the one who got us into this mess.

The lanky, shadowed figure had slowly stepped out of their vehicle. And my heart had pounded.

Then; "Chris?"

I'd blinked, wiping at the raindrops clinging to my lenses.

"Matt?" I'd breathed out in relief, almost falling comically against the side of my car. Matt stepped into the light, equipped with raised eyebrows and a friendly smile.

"Need a lift?"

He'd then proceeded to clamber back to his car, saying he'd be with us in five minutes while quickly clearing out his car. I couldn't miss the clinking of glass bottles as he shoved something into his boot. It felt like he was trying to hide something. He hadn't planned on bumping into us.

I'd pretended to ignore the beer bottle sticking out from under the seat when we'd clambered into his car. It wasn't a good idea to get Ashley thinking Matt was driving drunk.

And it wasn't a good idea for me to dwell on it either. I thought he was sober. He'd gone through Alcoholics Anonymous. For Jess' sake. He'd been clean for months. Right?

It didn't sit right with me.

It doesn't sit right with me.

But it's none of my business. It's something Sam would probably get involved in, but not me.

"Yeah," Matt shrugs, a friendly smile on his face. What was he even doing out on the road last night? Where was he going?

"Good," I nod back, concealing my thoughts. There still feels to be a stiffness between us. Like he knows I saw the alcohol. Like he knows I'm suspicious.

Well, if I promise not to tell Jess about his relapse, he'll not tell her about the car, right? At least we managed to call a tow truck to bring it to the hotel. I went to check on it this morning. It's not exactly pretty with the mud splatters across the sides, but at least it runs.

Her money wasn't entirely wasted.

"How's Jess?" Ashley perks up, interrupting my thoughts.

Matt's face relaxes and he settles into a topic that I know both him and Ashley will appreciate.

But before I can pitch in too, I hear the familiar beeping of my cell phone. Curious, I pull the phone out of my pocket and open the flashing text message.

JOSH: Bro. Help.

And there's an attached picture of Josh with a grimace on his face, sitting in front of a mess of what looks like a veggie burger.

I snort out a laugh at the next text message that comes flying through.

JOSH: She's trying to convert me.


	17. It Always Protects

"Emergency," Chris quirks his brow as he displays his cellphone in the air like that explains everything. I narrow my eyes at him, unable to hide my smile, whether nervous or not. It's Sam, probably. Or Josh.

Josh. It seems an age since I thought of him. I've been consumed with dreams and pills and _Chris_. My skin feels numb at the mention of Josh's name. It used to sting.

With a quick glance and a nod to Matt, Chris squeezes out of booth and excuses himself, cellphone to ear.

Matt shuffles, glancing around, unsure, like he's scanning for an escape route. It's probably something he's always done. A side effect of being trapped in those mines. Then, with a gritty cough and a shrug, Matt clunkily replaces the hole that Chris left.

"So..." Matt tries to pick up any conversation we were having a moment ago. His words had jolted over Jess' name, a passion in them, a friendliness in them. It was like she was only thing he loved more than alcohol. His roots were buried in her. His roots _were_ her.

But there's only so many words you can say about Jess before she starts being able to supernaturally tune in.

Matt shrugs. "Nice weather?"

I crack a smile, glancing to the steamed dripping window. It's probably the least nice I've seen it, rumbling with rain and skittering with dark clouds. Makes me shiver.

I sigh. We're dancing around small talk. Like it's a chore. Like we're strangers.

For a moment, we were. For a moment he blamed me.

"How's your job going?" I sharply change the subject, smothering my thoughts. Jess had mentioned something about him getting a mechanic internship, even though he'd wanted to be a football coach. I always thought he'd end up being a teacher. He was good with people. He always had a lightness in his eyes.

Matt's eyes are black now. Liquid, like they could drip ink onto the wooden table top any second now, soaking into the grain. Those days seem so far away. Aimlessly, my fingers trace the pattern of the wood, acutely aware of the scratched designs chiselled into them. Echoes of a time when my pencils used to etch words into school desks.

There's probably still a childish A + C forever imprinted somewhere in the school.

I glance at Matt, reality sinking in. Neither of us like to think about _before_. Before any of this happened, before we played that prank, before Josh played _his_.

Before Emily...

I shake my head, shivering.

But, back then... _before,_ there was a time when Matt was my friend. Trapped in between textbook pages and jotters are memories of an innocent bookworm and a jock. We'd pass smiles to each other across corridors, never really acknowledging anything more than an acquaintance.

But then he'd shove bitter words at the guys who teased me, telling them to back off. And I even remember when he'd bought me a new copy of that Nancy Drew book. The one I'd taken to school and then had been knocked – purposefully – out of my hand. The one that had landed with a squelch in a puddle.

Somewhere in a novel, someone would call those moments hopelessly romantic. It was never like that. We just had an understanding, a common spirit. We _got_ each other. Two similar souls caught in drastically opposite social cages.

Matt looks at me, his throat swallowing, twitching. I can't help but drag my eyes down the twisting, greying tattoo on the side of his neck.

Even if it is fading, with the memories he has of her and the hatred he had for Mike, that tattoo still stabs me. It lunges into my chest and tattoos a huge _'E'_ in blood on my heart.

Because I already have blood on my hands. Because I killed Emily. Because it's my fault.

Tears shimmer in my eye sockets. I can feel Matt watching me but I can't look at him. It's blood. It's dripping down my cheeks, thick and gloopy. The tears of the guilty.

I shut my eyes close and slam my hand into my pocket, feeling the surprisingly calming pill container in my grasp. I breathe out, forcing myself to count to ten.

I open my eyes. Even before I have the chance to take a pill – I know that if I take it, it'll be an overdose – the blood is gone.

It's just plain tears now.

Matt looks at me, worry dancing in his eyes.

But neither of us can say anything.

The silence grips me.

It wraps its fist around my throat and squeezes. I gasp for breath.

And I look at him. I look straight at him and I can't look away. Even if my tears are clouding my vision, even if the guilt is unbearable. I can't let myself hide away from this anymore.

"I miss her," I choke. A tear, like a beat, rolls down my cheek and lands with a plop on the back of my right hand.

Matt swallows, his eyes locked on me. His lip quivers and then he shakes his head. "It's not your fault," he says, his tone the most resolving I've ever heard it.

I shake my head over and over, stray strands of my hair clinging to my damp cheeks. I just want to hide away. To curl up in the bed covers again. To dissolve.

But I need courage. I need to face this. I need this to stop haunting me.

For once, I need to stop being a coward.

Because it wasn't Josh who did this. It wasn't him who made me like this, who evoked the nightmares and the painfully realistic hallucinations.

I swallow, the hard rock in my throat stuck, grinding against my skin like sandpaper.

It was me. It was my words. It was her death.

"I don't _blame_ you," Matt insists, leaning forward in his seat. His eyes search mine, their running blackness mixing with a kind of light. He swallows, he breaths, and he speaks. "I never did."

His words, the gentlest of kinds, slam into my chest. And I fall back against the booth, the tears streaming down my cheeks suddenly feeling refreshing. I breathe. I swallow. And the rock is gone.

It's just the tiniest bit; but I smile.

"Josh, I can't just-" Chris' voice sighs across the breakfast bar. I glance up in his direction, a distance away, his phone still glued to his ear. "You can't just lock yourself in the bathroom, Josh," he sighs, frustration rolling his eyes. I catch him looking in my direction and giving an apologetic smile. I shrug understandingly. I hope he can't see my red eyes. "Don't even think about breaking that window again- No! I didn't just give you an idea! No, you can't use the sink to break it, that's impossible."

"Seems like Josh is having a fine time," Matt muses and raises his eyebrow. "Sam?"

I nod, just as I hear Chris' scuffing footsteps.

"Sorry about that, guys," he cringes, slipping the cellphone back in his pocket just as he reaches the booth. He glances at me and I'm fully prepared to use my 'crying with laughter' excuse to cover for my puffy eyes. Though he'd be able to tell the truth anyway. He always does.

Chris studies me for a second. And I know he's noticed. I can tell by the cautious worry in his eyes.

But when he opens his lips, he doesn't ask about it. He knows to save that for later.

Instead, he casually says, "So, what were we talking about?"

Matt glances at me. And it's almost like he's the jock again and I'm the bookworm.

And he says smoothly, a grin on his lips, "The weather."

* * *

"Everything alright back there?" Chris whispers in my ear as he loops an arm around my back, leading me out of the breakfast area.

"Yeah," I smile, still feeling my heart quivering a little, fluttering like the feathers of a baby bird. I don't know if it's the side effect of the guilt and anxiety doing that, or if it's just Chris. Either way, I still find myself thumbing the pill container in my pocket, like it's grounding me.

Is this how Josh feels?

Chris' hand slide up my body and I can feel his fingers drum against my shoulder. Just that little movement assures me that Chris isn't so sure – but he doesn't want to push it.

I want to tell him I'm not fragile.

"What was Josh wanting?" I tease, changing the subject, finding Chris' free hand with mine. There's a strange lightness in my heart, like a piece of the suffocating concrete that was concealing and constricting it has miraculously broken off. It's not all gone, but there's enough cracks for hope to shine through.

Chris chuckles under his breath, glad for the light atmosphere. "An escape route?" he suggests. I can feel his stray fingers toying with strands of my hair on my shoulder.

I want to mutter a _'Typical'_ under my voice with a chuckle. But I don't really have the right. I've never really known enough about Josh to know if it _is_ typical him.

I always tried to push him away, pretending he was a part of Chris that didn't exist.

I just didn't realise that the largest part of Chris _was_ Josh.

Comfortably, we slip out into the hotel reception and our feet naturally pad in the direction of our room.

"I figured we could head down the road again," Chris offers with a quirked brow. "You know, if you want."

That translated to _'If you're ready.'_

It was about time I stopped being worried about being ready. It was about time I just went for it. Like Josh. Like the biggest part of Chris' life.

I let my eyes light up as tentatively and mischievously glance at him, a grin teasing my lips. "Can I drive?"


	18. It Always Trusts

I distinctly remember the day I almost died.

No, not that night. Not the one with the mountain and the wendigoes and the screaming. That one _was_ a pretty close call, though.

No. This time it involved ice cream.

"Did you see that guy's face?" I'd roared with laughter as Ashley's cheeks had flared red.

"It's not funny," Ashley had pouted, sharply jabbing me in the side with her elbow while still successfully clutching onto her ice cream – piled high with brightly coloured, strawberry sauce and sprinkles.

I had glanced at her with a mischievous glimmer, my own ice cream cone perched in my grasp. Mine was as pretty plain as you can get – two scoops of vanilla topped off with a chocolate flake. No one can resist a flake.

"It's _pretty_ funny," I'd chuckled, catching Ashley's eyes with a teasing glance.

It was Josh's idea. _"She likes ice cream, right?"_ he'd said out of the blue, that irritatingly _Josh_ look on his face. _"Go get her some ice cream."_ The implication was pretty obvious. _'Go get some_ ice cream _'._ Insert winking face here.

I'm pretty sure I'd groaned and then shoved him off his chair. He'd responded with a gurgling laugh and a look that said, ' _You know you want to.'_

But I'd done it. I'd bought her some ice cream. Not that I'd planned it or anything. The ice cream van had just _happened_ to be parked there. At the side of the road. When we were walking home. Or, you know, now that I think about it, maybe Josh _bribed_ the driver. Pretty plausible. Pretty _Josh_.

I'm sure Josh was expecting Ashley to swoon into my arms after I'd won her over with her favourite frozen treat. What he wouldn't have expected was that, after gratefully taking the ice cream from my hand, she'd spin around, trip on her feet and fling the ice cream with a splat onto the concrete.

Or that the ice cream driver would burst out laughing. Complete with gasping breath and reddening, bulging cheeks. And then offer her another – _free –_ ice cream.

_Smooth._

"You're a jerk," Ashley spat under her breath at me, though the irresistibly childish glimmer in her eyes indicated that she was as pleased with her free ice cream as I was.

Eating our ice creams – me biting, her nibbling – our feet fell into step with each other. Subconsciously leading to the zebra crossing.

_Cross over, Chris_. This had been one of those ridiculously symbolic moments. I had been caught in that trap again – the one I always seemed to walk into whenever I was around her. The one where I couldn't stop thinking about her. Or looking at her. Or pretty much grovelling for her. _Cross over, Chris. You can do it. Cross over from being just her friend. Just tell her that you-_

"Chris!"

Ashley's voice had shouted. And fingers gripped my upper arm and yanked me onto sidewalk. Just as a car whipped passed me, inches from my nose. My breath caught in its wheels.

"You could have died!" Ashley had cried, hitting me with the sharpness of her palm, ice cream in hand.

I stared at the space where I might have died. Frozen. Numb. The breath of the roaring car still lingering on my skin.

Maybe that's why I did it. Why I'd pulled the lever to save her, why I'd pressed the gun to my chin. Why I'd pulled the trigger.

A life for a life. She'd saved my life – even if it was a moment trapped between ice cream and laughter.

So I'd chosen to save hers. No – I was _obligated_ to save hers. It was part of my fabric.

I couldn't live on and be _Chris_ if I'd gone _against_ that fabric. If I'd unravelled myself.

In a second, I had let out a breath. The world Registering Ashley's fingers still biting into the skin of my arm.

Then I had turned and looked at her – the hurt and anger and fear swirling in her eyes. And the dab of ice cream that was smeared on her nose.

"You've got a little something," I'd finally said, pointing at her nose, breaking my face with a smile.

"What the _hell_?" She'd snapped, about to hit me again – she was obviously frustrated that I could say something so nonchalantly after almost dying – and then thought about it and wiped her sleeve across her nose.

"You've got a little bit of it..." Ashley had started, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. And then she shoved her ice cream in my face. "Everywhere!"

I'd stumbled back, strawberry ice cream – complete with all that sauce and sprinkles – dripping down my face. I couldn't resist it. I darted my tongue out of my mouth and run it all the way around my lips. I mean, why waste it?

"Yum," I'd exclaimed with a smirk, wiping my glasses of ice cream.

Ashley's laughter was accompanied by an ' _ew'._ And then we'd giggled together – well, she'd giggled, I'd chortled – back to our houses where I could look a little more human and a little less _frozen milk_.

And we'd almost forgotten about how I'd almost died.

Turns out we have a habit of almost dying.

"Are you _sure_ you can do this?" I swallow, gripping onto my seatbelt like it's the only thing that can save me.

"Oh, sure," Ashley cheerfully hums, yanking the handbrake, the car jerking forward in a screech. My intestines almost lurch into my throat.

With as much as I trust Ashley, I am highly reluctant to risk my life in her car. She doesn't exactly have the best track record with vehicles. I remember when we decided to hang out at the arcade after school. _"Just as friends, obviously,"_ I'd awkwardly added at the end of my offer, followed by a stiff laugh. It was easy just to pretend everything was platonic.

We'd tried out a few games – I'd beaten her 5 to 2 – before she'd spotted the race car simulator. Her eyes had glinted with a challenge. I'd simply laughed, highly expecting to add another win to my card. Maybe I'd let her win this time. That's what a gentleman would do, huh?

That's what I was thinking _before_ she'd gripped the steering wheel like a wild boar – like one of those mechanical, raging bulls that you have to stay atop of – and had attacked it like it was about to murder her entire family. Or broken her favourite mug.

Don't mess with Ashley's mugs.

Needless to say, I lost. Even after Ashley violently crashed against the barriers multiple times and let out irresistibly cute curses of _"Oh sugar!"_ and _"Apples!"_.

"That's the wrong gear!" I cringe as the car cracks under us, grinding and spluttering painfully. It probably sounds worse than our old car ever did.

I lunge forward, seatbelt biting into my neck, and I throw my hand over hers, guiding the gear stick into first gear.

"That's better," I sigh, hearing the engine humming obediently now. I drop back against my seat, wiping imaginary sweat from my forehead.

"Yeah," Ashley laughs jaggedly. "I totally meant to do that."

I scoff, glancing at her and rolling my eyes.

She catches my gaze. Her lips are trying to guard off giggles.

_I'm so glad you're feeling better._

My heart wants to beat that message through her veins. A gentle thrumming.

She catches it with her eyelashes.

And her eyes dip.

"Thanks, Chris," she breaths out as if her oxygen is made out of those two words.

I stop breathing.

She's been using those two words every single second of every day since that nice. Silently using them in her hand holding and her breathing and her glancing. And I've been using them as an excuse to stay close to her. To not loosen my grip on her.

_She needs me_.

She needs me.

I need her. I need her more.

She's good at saving me. She's good at pulling me back before I get run over by cars.

"That's what I'm here for," I joke, breaking my breathlessness, shielding my thoughts. "To make sure you don't _crash_."

"No, I meant-" Ashley starts, before she rolls her eyes. "You know what I meant."

And I do.

Then, with a glint in her eyes, she leans forward and clicks on the radio. The channel decides that _For Once In My Life_ , that Stevie Wonder hit, is the theme tune for this moment in time. A song that captures this moment between us; trapped in between wind swept hair and the smells of fresh spring. And promises.

Ones we don't want to let go. Ones we maybe have to.

Ashley revs the engine, drops the handbrake and we speed off to the beat of the music – to the beat of our intertwined hearts. I think hers is going faster than mine.


	19. It Always Hopes

The car screeches to a stop. The up-beat, sing-along-worthy radio music is just background noise as I slowly breathe, peeling my hands from the steering wheel. I cut the engine. The music cuts off with it. Silence.

I didn't know where I was going when I turned the engine on. I didn't even know as we just kept on driving and driving, hearts and voices singing sloppily along to 80's classics. It was bliss. It was oblivious, ignorant bliss.

That had trailed off as soon as Chris had seen where we were, his once enthusiastic, cringe-worthy voice fading away. I didn't even realise that this was where I had been driving to – where I was _meant_ to be driving to – until I'd pulled the car up at the bottom of the road. And everything had sunken in.

There is nothing but silence in the car now. In a place where happiness and temporary forgetfulness had been bubbling up so fruitfully, it only took one twist of a car's key, one cutting of an engine, to make it disappear.

"Ashley?" Chris questions quietly, his voice hoarse from all the over-exaggerated singing – and the screaming when she almost crashed. Twice. I don't look at him. I know there's confusion on his face. Confusion that is slowly morphing into some form of understanding. Though I don't know if he'll ever fully understand. I don't even know if I do. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," I whisper immediately. Though it's small and tiny and definitely low in self-esteem, my voice is sure. I let my eyes fall on the man beside me, seeing the fear in his eyes. Fear for me. Fear for himself. "We do."

Sam and Josh had done it. They'd faced it. They'd gone and found the video and they'd come down in one piece. Maybe even better. Maybe that was why he was okay. Why he seemed to so easily _cope_ with everything. Something that I had never mastered. Never learned.

Maybe this place is the key.

Chris' breath shudders in the car's frigid air. I watch his eyes dare to look out of the windscreen, gritting his teeth at the sight of the beginnings of the mountain.

"We don't have to do this to... to move on, Ashley," he says so decisively. But he isn't sure of himself. I can tell immediately. Even in my empty, broken shell, there is always room for a piece of Chris. A piece of _knowing_ him. Of under _standing_ him. I don't think I'll ever be able to lose it. It's inside me like a shard of shrapnel, digging into my heart, threatening to pierce the surface. It shot inside of me the minute he decided to shoot himself.

"Yes, we do," I try to formulate the words, inhaling a shivering breath. And when I let my eyes peer so carefully out the window, searching for the familiar – and terrifying – _Blackwood Pines_ sign, I feel the strongest I've ever been. Maybe... maybe this is the weapon I need to fight it. To fight myself.

My hand finds the inside handle of the car door. I click it, pushing the door open. The oddly, warm air hovers around to greet me. I can hear Chris protesting behind me, but I need to do this. I need to do this. I need to do this.

I step outside. Slowly. On unsure feet at first, letting the whispers of the breeze play with my hair. It looks different here in Summer. Bright colours and soft, warm hues. Flowers dare to bloom around the gate. It's as if someone has taken the mountain and painted it with a brush of newness. A glossy coat of paint. Like nothing bad has ever happened here. Like nothing bad could ever happen here.

Behind me, Chris' car door heaves open. I don't let my eyes fall from the path in front of me, the gravel weaving through grass. The way up the mountain. If I drop my gaze, I'm scared I'll lose my nerve.

The car door closes. I hear his footsteps like heartbeats crunching up behind me. I let my ears linger on them – remembering his presence is here – until they stop.

"We don't have to go all the way up," Chris says slowly. Like he's trying to convince himself. Like he's trying to tell himself it will be okay.

I wantit to be okay too.

Silence spills between us. It's not uncomfortable. Silence has never been uncomfortable for us anymore. We know that it is the time when we learn. When we formulate and investigate and think. When we remember.

When we forget.

His hand reaches for mine. I feel his warm fingers graze against my palm. It's careful. Tentative. I don't even know if he's doing it for me anymore, or for himself. I don't care. I grip his hand back. I need him for this. I've never needed him more than for this.

"Okay," Chris mutters under his breath. He's trying to steal some courage. I don't know where he's finding it from. Wherever it's from, I could do with some too. I feel him nod, his body heat close to mine. His hand unconsciously squeezes mine.

We step forward.

Gravel crunches under our feet. One step at a time. And the world whirls around us as if, with every step we take, we're moving back in time. Slowly and slowly facing what we've run away from for so long. No. What _I've_ been running away from.

I grip Chris' hand. I feel him tense up.

He winces. "When did you get so strong, Chuck Norris?" He chuckles gently, testing the air.

A giggle escapes my lips. I glance at him, my eyes lighting up. Suddenly feeling like this place could be normal. Maybe it won't be the place of nightmares, the place of tombstones. Maybe it could be-

_Em..._

I freeze. My smile drops. Chris glances at me, eyebrows knitting in confusion. And the voice spills around me, filling up my ears like water. My fingers dig into the skin of Chris' hand.

He inhales sharply, before reaching out to me.

"Ash?"

I stare straight ahead. Feeling my face crumble. Knowing my lips are shuddering. The voice. The voices. They're too strong.

"Ash, don't do this to me again."

_Em, what is that...?_

_Huh?_

The voice. I know it. It stabs me like an injection dart, like a paralysing drug. Spinning and spinning around me like snow, like ice, like wendigoes.

"We'll go back to the car," he tugs on my arm, trying to pry me out. I can hear him. But I can't. The voice, it's too loud. It's too in my head.

_Em..._

It's only the repetitive thrum of Chris' pulse that pulls me out. I blink. I look at Chris.

"No," I shake my head, finally feeling myself breath. "I'm ready."

He looks at me for a long time. Studying me, careful and thorough. I can feel him scour me on the inside. "I don't think you are," he finally says. And I know what it means. I know what _he_ means. It's not just about being ready to face this place again, to face all the memories.

It's about being ready to move on in life. Being ready to find some other place, some other identity to settle into.

It's about being ready to get married.

"You're not ready," he says again. Like it's a simple fact. Like it's the only fact.

And maybe it's the first time. Maybe it's the only time we've really understood each other. Really and truly. Because, through all the connections we've ever had, all the times we've ever shared, there has always been something. Something not quite there. Something not quite found. And now, looking into his eyes, through the damp glass of his frames, I think I've found it. I feel like, right now, right in this moment, he entirely and completely knows me.

And then it's not about me anymore. It's about him. Him and him and him and him.

"Maybe," I whisper, like I'm daring the universe, like I'm fighting fate. And I pretend that I can win. "Maybe it was never about being ready."

Maybe it was never about being anything.


	20. It Always Perserveres

I half expected the trees to be painted in blood. Hanging with flesh and bones and the remains of wendigoes. And they're... surprisingly normal. They bustle with a gentle, summer breeze, birds twittering in their branches. It's a sort of false sense of security. I don't keep my eyes off the trees.

We hadn't talked. We had just stayed quiet, our only connection being our interlinked hands. Maybe we were thinking that, somehow, if we showed the mountain that what it had tried to do the them that night hadn't succeeded. That we were still alive. That we were stronger. That we were together.

The crunching gravel under our feet is eerily _normal_. It spooks me out. Like the haunting, ugly memories from those years ago meant nothing to this place. Like it was made of jelly. Like that night had been a boulder, smashed into the side of the mountain. But, within minutes, within hours, it had sprung back up again. As if nothing had happened.

As if no lives had been lost here.

"Maybe," Ashley finally says, her voice shuddering slightly. But I can feel the strength in her arm, in her shoulders. Suddenly, I realise how much she's grown. She has been growing and growing far more in these past few days than she ever did before. Every time, when I saw her returning to her normal self, flicker by flicker, I was sure that was her moving backwards. Moving back and back to how she used to be. But maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe it's her moving _forward_. Moving onto a stronger Ashley. A better Ashley.

How could I have not seen that?

"Maybe we should talk," she offers. I like the sound of her voice in the air. It doesn't feel so tense when I can hear her speak.

"What about?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and almost jump at the movement. I instantly swear at whoever is texting me – probably Josh.

"I don't know," Ashley leans into me as we walk. And walk and walk and walk. We've already passed the gates at the bottom of the mountain. I almost expected to see the note I'd left there to be still hanging from the broken gates. Untouched, frozen in time. Turns out that, when it comes to police and driving up mountain sides, pretty much anything is possible. Including fixing gates.

I catch the sound of Ashley giggling underneath her breath. I flash my eyes to her – suddenly not scanning the trees any more – raising my eyebrows. Okay, this is almost _too_ normal.

"Do you remember," a smile dusts her lips and her eyes glitter towards me, "The first time I came here?"

I blink. I chuckle. I remember.

"Yeah," I nod, feeling my face relax. Of all the memories, ugly and distorted, she chose this one? "It was pretty funny."

"It was _not_ pretty funny," Ashley sends me a sharp glare, before breaking out into a wild smile. "Okay, it was pretty funny."

A laugh vibrates in my throat. I unhook my hand from hers, throwing my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into me. "You were very cute," I murmur teasingly against her hair. She grins back, batting me away playfully.

It had been the first year after Chris and Ashley had really gotten close. Josh and his sisters had been organising the winter getaway and Chris had been roped in – as was usual most of the time. It kind of came with the territory of being Josh's best friend. And as Josh had lounged on the sofa, scrolling through the contacts on his phone, completely and utterly pretending to be organising invitations, he had casually and very subtly said, "Is there anyone _you_ want to invite, Chris?"

"Huh?" I'd glanced up from my own phone screen. Where I had shamelessly been playing Tetris.

Josh had then smirked slow and long, wiggling his eyebrows. "Anybody at _all_?"

I had dragged out a long sigh, rolling my eyes. It had been a complete pretence to cover my slowly reddening cheeks.

Of course I'd invited Ashley anyway.

"Well," Ashley folds her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at me. I grin sheepishly back at her like I've done something wrong. "I _was_ trying to impress you."

It had been a drinking competition. Josh being, well Josh, had challenged me to a race; one that, of course, included alcohol. The rules were simple; the first person to chug a whole bottle of beer the fastest – with no breaks – was the winner.

I couldn't exactly show my best friend down. Or the girl I had a major crush on. So, amid the cheers of everyone else, I'd taken up the challenge.

And lost. Miserably.

Josh had proceeded to gloat it in my face, cheering and yelling in victory, his fists in the air, running around the room. The crowd of eight were a mixture of cheers and groans – the latter mainly from Josh's sisters – and I had just grimaced, trying my best not to throw up. With all the alcohol and all.

And then Josh had whistled, shouting out into the air; "Who's gonna fight the _champion_?!" Because he honestly cannot drink enough beer.

Before Mike even had a second to show off his manliness, the little, small arm of Ashley had slipped up into the air.

"Whoa," Josh had hooted. "Chris' girlfriend is gonna do it?"

Before I even had the chance to deny that she was my girlfriend, Ashley had already stepped up to the table, gripping the beer bottle in her pale hand.

Needless to say, as soon as Matt had shouted, "Start!", Ashley had taken one gulp of the beer and spluttered everywhere. Resulting in a room full of laughter, Ashley glaring at everyone – especially me – and running out the room.

I gawk back at her, playfulness fluttering in my eyes., "Now, that's something I _didn't_ know." I grin.

"What?" She nudges me hard in the side with her elbow. I yelp, jumping back. "I thought the whole _drinking_ thing was your thing. I thought you might like me if I-"

She pauses. Her forehead creases, like she's listening for something. Her eyes flicker and dim and struggle. Slowly, her lips close like clamps. And I can hear her breath quicken. I swear underneath my breath, watching helplessly. Again and again.

I know she's seeing something. I know she's hearing something.

I know I can't stop it.

My hand weaves its way to find hers. I hold it. If that will help.

Because I know now not to try and break her trance. I've tried and I've tried and it's never worked. I know now to let her fight this herself. No one can do a better job than her.

It's like someone fighting a fever. You have to let them sweat, let their body fight it. Sure, maybe I'm her antibiotics, but she has to be her own white blood cells. She has to fight her own battle. How did it take me this long to realise it?

The air is so much emptier without her words in them. I'm suddenly aware of my surroundings again. Of the eerily normal trees and the crunching gravel underfoot. I glance up, seeing the familiar shadow of the cable car station up ahead. I hadn't even realised we'd travelled this far up.

"Sorry," she murmurs finally, her eyes brightening ever so slightly. "I'm- I'm getting used to it."

I want to hold her. I want to tug her to me and tell her how proud of her I am.

But, instead, I find myself just looking at her. Searching her eyes as she finds mine. "What do you see?" I say suddenly, not even recognising my voice at first. I swallow, seeing the surprise in her face. But this is something I need to ask. It's something I need to understand. It's something I _want_ to understand. "When it happens. What do you see?"

Ashley looks at me. There's not even a drop of surprise that flickers her expression. It's as if she's been waiting for me to ask this. She breathes slow and deep, like she's finally finding the courage to face the truth. "Emily, mostly."

_Emily._ So that's what this has been about this whole time. _Emily_. Ashley still feels guilty. She still feels responsible for her death. She still feels like she's the one who should have been locked up. She still feels like she's the one who pulled the trigger.

Maybe. Maybe, after all this time, that was more traumatic than anything else that night. Maybe it was the guilt that had driven this into her brain. Maybe the guilt was more ferocious than a wendigo could ever be.

"Emily," she continues, searching her brain for the answers. Finally scouring for the truth. "And you. And Josh. And the wendigoes. And- And-"

"A bit like my nightmares," I voice, an envelopment of understanding coming over my voice. As much as we have always connected with each other, as much as we can see each others thoughts through simple gazes, maybe – maybe this is the time when I have most understood her.

In the simplest of ways.

"Yeah," she swallows, smiling slightly and tentatively, as if she's figuring it all out herself. "Like... awake nightmares."

And suddenly, that makes it all okay. Because nightmares are normal. Nightmares happen to everyone. It's an assurance. A promise. That, no matter what, Ashley is normal. Ashley is okay.

Maybe I needed to hear that more than anyone.

* * *

We cradle next to each other on the cable car station bench. It's not even that cold but it's a way for us to fight the ugliness of our memories. The wood of the bench is hard against my spine. It's as unforgiving and ruthless as I remember it being. Maybe even more. Maybe the wind has chipped away at it, eroding it, giving it even sharper edges, even rougher corners. It grates against my back.

Ashley's eyes scan the tree line, one minute searching for wendigoes, the next assuring herself that there are no wendigoes. The last; just admiring it. The serene, gentle bustling of the tree branches. And the realisation that maybe we aren't in so much danger.

Maybe we have to be like these trees. Even after the trauma, even after the darkness, the trees have so easily managed to build themselves up again with new coats of luscious bright, green leaves. Full and fresh with life.

I chuckle, feeling Ashley lean her head against my shoulder. This isn't perfect. We aren't perfect. I don't ever think we'll treasure this place. I can't imagine that we'll even want to come back here.

But we did it. She did it. Of course she did.

And above all, we needed this. We needed this closure. How was I so blind all along?

Maybe that was the problem all along. Not her. Not me. Not us.

Just the distance that we had pushed away our past, pretending that it had never happened. Without even facing it.

_They're dead._ I remind myself of our mantra. _They can't get us here. It's all over._

And, for once. For one real moment, I smile. I actually smile. And I curse at beading tears. Maybe we won't ever need to say that mantra ever again. Maybe. Maybe we can finally move on.

I snort.

Ashley was right again.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I almost forgot. Josh. Trying not to disturb Ashley, I carefully slide my phone out of my pocket, glancing at the screen.

_Two text messages from: Josh_

I roll my eyes, feeling odd that, of all places I'd be receiving texts from Josh, it would be here. The last place I ever thought I'd be back to. The one place I'd once thought I'd lost him to. And then I click open.

JOSH: _SOS. I think she's going to kiss me._

JOSH: _Never mind. She kissed me._

I chuckle under my breath. It was about time those two got together. Though I guess I'm not really one to talk.

I send Josh a quick thumbs up emoji before shutting down my phone. I'll speak to him later. This is a time for me and Ashley. This is a time for me to spend these, however silent, moments with her.

I smile. I can just imagine Ashley talking about how I've never shut down my phone for anyone else. She'd look proud and smug and I would tell her not to gloat.

And she would tell me she had ever reason to. Which she does.

Sighing with some kind of bittersweet relief, I squeeze Ashley gently, my arm resting around her shoulders. She hums against my chest and I know she's fighting her own battle. But I'll be here. I'll always be here.

And, you know what? I think she's winning.


	21. Epilogue: Love Never Fails

 

 

 

**Three Months Later**

The breeze blissfully teases the hem of my chiffon, white dress, the ends fluttering and twisting in the air. I laugh, pushing the skirt down, swearing at the wind for trying to flash my guests.

"Say cheese!" The photographer calls from behind his camera. I feel Chris squeeze me around the waist where he holds me. He glances at me knowingly, one quirk of his eyebrow the single sign I need to see. I smile, wrinkling my nose.

" _Three,"_ he mouths slowly and I lock my eyes onto his, following the movement of his mouth. _"Two."_

I bite my lip, hearing the clicking of the camera as the photographer takes sneaky shots of us.

" _One."_

"Mozzarella!" I yell with excitement, flinging my eyes to the camera just as Chris shouts, "Camembert!"

The crowd around us ripples with laughter just as the camera flashes.

I smile. Probably the widest I ever have done. So wide that my cheeks hurt.

It feels like it has taken us a long time to get here. Through nightmares and horrors and pills and friends. And ugly memories and facing our past. And sticking together. Always together. Like accidentally super-gluing hands together.

I've been taking my medication. The doctors say I'm steady... steadier. My vision has been clearer than before. I don't think I've seen a shadow or a flesh eating monster in weeks.

Emily comes to visit me sometimes though. She haunts me with the words; words I said to her, words I condemned her with. At first I wanted to scream, to run away, to fight her. But I've learned to live with her now. She's not so scary after all.

I think she forgives me.

Chris fumbles with his hands, listening to the photographer's directions. He was never much of a model. I watch him through contented lashes, one hand holding my bouquet, the other holding his. He looks good in his shirt and skinny tie. Even better than the first time around.

We decided that, this time, we didn't want the same kind of wedding. Maybe it was because the building was too confined or the decorations were too similar or that my dress reminded me of blood. Or maybe it was because we didn't have enough money to book a larger venue. Either way, Chris had swapped his traditional suit for a more relaxed outfit, and I had found a shorter, white dress on a budget; one that felt less constricting. One that felt like a new start.

And now, we swapped that tight, small venue for a tent in the heart of beautiful, endless fields ripe with springing flowers. And a sweet, kissing breeze. It's probably the furthest from a church. It's probably the furthest from the mountain. I like it that way.

Chris had asked if he could wear his spiderman costume underneath. I had just made a face at him and hit him over the head with a pillow. He's probably still wearing it anyway.

My old wedding dress is hanging up in our wardrobe, surrounded by other, rarely worn clothes. I haven't managed to build up enough courage to look at it. But someday I will. Maybe someday I won't hate it. And I think, maybe, I might just save it for a certain friend who could possibly be getting married in the near future.

"Look," Chris whispers against the skin of my cheek, pointing out into the crowd. I follow his finger, catching sight of a very giddy looking Jess with a close Matt at her side. It's good to see them looking so well. Chris told me that Jess managed to pass her first year of law school. It wasn't particularly with flying colours but it's enough for her to look visibly proud. And she's fighting for it.

And Matt. He looks less tired, less... less guilty. I think Jess has been keeping her eye on him, keeping him off the alcohol. She didn't let him go anywhere near the bar today. Maybe it's working. Maybe it's enough for him to do it for her. Maybe that's enough motivation. I hope so.

I wave quietly at them, seeing Jess' eyes light up, smiling so bravely back. She's come a long way. I hope she feels more included, more a part of us.

Mike doesn't stand so far away, watching on complacently, Wolfie close to his sides. After the tangled memories of Josh and what seeing him... last time had done to me, Chris had agreed that maybe our wedding this time should be simpler. Less people, less guests, less fuss. So we didn't have a best man. Or any bridesmaids.

Just us. And the minister. And a trickling crowd of people who care about us. Family. Parents. Friends.

But somebody had to bring the rings. And, as much as I love him, I didn't trust Chris enough to not lose them.

That's when Sam had sparked up with an idea. And, to Chris' horror, it had been Wolfie who had been pacing up the isle with two rings tied to a ribbon around his neck. I had just giggled and assured him that he was perfectly safe. I still think the two of them don't get along.

I think Mike has been doing well. He still gets the occasional flick of the eye towards him from people who still wonder if he's a murderer. But Chris assures me that he's feeling better. That he's fitting in more. And I think Wolfie helps. Everybody loves Wolfie.

Except Chris. Obviously.

The photographer smiles, thanking us for our time. He takes one last click of his camera before the crowds are allowed to mull around us again.

Chris lets out a long, dragging sigh. "I don't think I've felt more tense in my whole entire life," he mutters under his breath, his eyes looking wide with aching shock.

I laugh, knocking him with my arm. He passes me a slightly irritated but obviously adorable glance. "Oh," he raises his eyebrows amusingly, cocking me with a challenging stare. "Is that what _you_ think, _wife_?"

A giddy smile tugs up my lips. I'm still not going to get used to that, even as I toy with the wedding band around my ring finger. It's so good to see Chris this... relaxed. Before he was so stressed. Maybe it was me making him so stressed.

But now... now I'm feeling better, I think he is too. I know he is. I can see it in the way his shoulders rest.

"Champagne?" A smooth Sam crosses the grass, sidling up to us, two flutes of bubbling drinks in her hands.

"Don't mind if I do," Chris grabs one as quickly as she appeared, downing it in one. I stare at him, my slack and wide open. Sam looks as shocked as I do. It only takes a second for Chris to glance at the both of us back and forth. "What?" He shrugs awkwardly. "I was nervous."

I giggle and Sam laughs. She passes a glance towards me and I almost grin. She wiggles her eyebrows at me. I blush.

"What _?_ " Chris asks incredulously, sounding even more confused. _"What?_ "

Sam finds my side, hooking her hand into my elbow and gently leading me away. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like she's not going to ask me how I'm feeling or how I'm holding up. I think she already knows. I think she can already tell.

"You gonna throw that bouquet any time soon?" She nudges me, her eyes dragging down to the flowers in my hand. Then she nudges her head in the direction of Jess and Matt. "I think some people could do with a _shove_."

I glance down at the pale yellow and sunflower orange flowers in my hands, feeling a smile creep up my face. "I can think of some other people who could use the same thing."

Sam blinks at me, looking equally as confused as Chris was a moment ago. I glance across at him. Nope. He still looks confused.

I give her an inside smile which makes her even more confused, and then I'm promising her I'll speak to her later. And then I'm slipping away, whispering across the grass to Chris' side.

"Hey there, stranger," he hooks his arm around my shoulders. "What did Sam want?" I catch a sight of his eyes. There's a flicker of concern there. It still feels like he needs to be here with me constantly. To protect me. As if someone is going to force a gun into his hand, or a lever into his grip. But he's been better. And I've been better. And maybe, someday, we won't need each other as much.

I hope not.

"Nothing much," I mutter with a gentle smile.

"Hey," Chris adds as if the thought has just occurred to him. I turn to him, watching him with every flicker of adoration. He deserves all the attention I can give him. "I just wanted to say... I know this is not what you originally wanted."

"Shh," I stop him, instinctively pressing a finger to his lips and smiling. He looks shocked, blinking back his surprise. "It's everything I could have ever wanted."

Slowly, his eyes relax and he smiles again and I drop my finger. But not before he can catch my hand and give it a squeeze. "Especially," I say, and it's a promise. It will always be a promise, "Since it's you."

And he looks as if he's been waiting to hear those words in forever. And I lean forward and lean up and I press my lips against his. Just like our very first kiss. This one with so much of the very same feelings, but so much more secure. So much more sure.

"I gotta go," I teasingly smile as I pull away. Chris blinks, his mouth opening and closing to object. But I've already slipped away.

Sam catches my look from across the field and I nod at her. She grins wildly and then shouts; "Bouquet toss!"

All the single – and those who still wish they were – girls scramble in a pile, arms outstretched into the air, waiting for the flowers to be flung into the air. I smile. I smile and I smile and I smile. And I turn around, my back to them, and throw the bouquet as hard as I have ever thrown anything before.

And, just as they are walking across the path, completely uninvolved and unaware, the bouquet comes sailing straight out of the air and into their hands. A perfect hit.

I glance around, my lips flying up in a smile when I see who's caught it.

His eyes glance up in shock and confusion and definitely a lot of alcohol. And I see him glancing around, looking for the source of this random pile of flowers in his hands.

I smile so happily with my eyes. And I cannot believe how peaceful - how pleased - I am to see him.

Josh.


End file.
